


The Mystery Boy

by wawrthur



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Classical Music, Fluff, Homophobia, M/M, Pianist!Arthur, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Self-Harm, artist!Merlin, homeless, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 94,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wawrthur/pseuds/wawrthur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Having escaped Uther's tyranny, Arthur only needs to survive, free and alone, until his twenty-first birthday whereupon he will recieve the inheritance his mother left for him and be forever free of his father's rule.  But the path is not smooth.  While on the run, he meets Merlin, the strange art student who sees his suffering and tries to help him heal his old wounds</i>
</p><p> </p><p> This is literally 70% porn, 20% pain, 7% music and 3% plot but if you are going through a harsh time, it might just be what you are looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Triple Warning** :  
>  **1) This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm. It also contains a graphic art although it is posted as a link so you have the choice not to click it. Please stay safe and if you feel like you might be triggered, refrain from reading this story.**  
>  **2) This story contains suicide ideation. It also depicts numerous suicide attempts. Please do not read if you feel like this might be bad for you.**  
>  **3)** As a person who can’t stomach **non-con** , I made sure to write it **as inexplicit as possible, but please be mindful of such action taking place (not Arthur/Merlin)** in the close to final act of the story.
> 
> The general **playlist** for the story is available [here](http://8tracks.com/wawrthur/soundtrack). It includes all the music mentioned in this work except for 4'33 by John Cage and the one piece (by Mahler) that is linked directly in the story. I advise you to listen to the soundtrack as you read because it will add to the mood of the narrative :) I will create a win-zip with the music if anyone requests. (I also want to create Arthur/Merlin mixes but I'm not sure if anyone will listen to them so)
> 
> Please tell me if there are any issues with the music! 
> 
> For all the additional information please look in the end notes :3  
> (more timeline banners will be added)
> 
> xx  
> \---
> 
> I would like to express my eternal gratitude to [Raven](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote) for brit-picking, betaing, being there with me every step of the way and being an incredibly kind, patient and lovely human being. I would never have done this without her.
> 
> I also want to thank my brilliant, talented and utterly gracious artist [heroiclatte](http://archiveofourown.org/works/966950) who I was so lucky to work with. It's been a pleasure ;)
> 
> Infinitely many thanks for the support go to [ZairA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZairaA/pseuds/ZairaA) (who also betaed for me and basically helped me immensely, I'm so glad you agreed to do this for me bb :3), [Deminos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deminos/pseuds/Deminos), [Crimsonswrils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls/pseuds/crimsonswirls), [Rockn](http://rocknvaughn.livejournal.com/), [Foxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfox/pseuds/Nightfox) and all the amazing people from [the PL chat](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PL_Chat_Madness)! It was so great to get to know you guys :) A special thanks for the help with art research goes to [fuckyeah](http://fuckyeah.livejournal.com), who has the best sense of humour I've ever seen in one person :)
> 
> I'd like to thank my friend who chose to stay anonymous for the great help with the technical side of writing this PL. She also is the author the art that is going to be posted as a link in the text. Thank you for everything :)
> 
> The idea of this story had been planted in my head by my Destiny who shall remain secret until she creates an LJ :) 
> 
> Finally, I would like to thank [the_muppet](http://the-muppet.livejournal.com) for being a patient, wonderful, cheerful mod and making this challenge so incredible. 
> 
> I would like to dedicate this work to [hopeisathreat](http://hopeisathreat.livejournal.com) who unfortunately didn't post the majestic story she has been writing for paperlegends2013 but who has been the main reason I have finished this story. This is for you, darling :)

The sunlight was comfortably warm on Arthur’s skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment, listening closely to the whisper of the sea waves. Everything was so still and peaceful, that Arthur could feel the hairs on his arm being disturbed by a gentle breeze.

He smiled. This was his first holiday in ages. It actually seemed like this was his first holiday ever.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have to hide who he was. Didn’t have to use false names, didn’t need to look over his shoulder every time he was out in the open. Ever since Michael, although back then Arthur had only known him as Dr.Hannon, helped him escape his tyrant of a father yet again, Arthur had been locking himself in their flat most of the time. He was terrified at the thought of being spotted on London’s streets, well known for the excessive CCTV. He knew he might have been slightly paranoid, but he also remembered how easy it was for a man with his father’s money and connections to get any necessary information.

It was a wonder he hadn’t been found yet, really. Maybe, his father had given up on him.

Arthur sighed.

It was not the time to think about his problems. Michael had brought him here for a week to enjoy the sunlight and to relax. He should do that.

Arthur scratched at his forearm, willing himself to forget everything except the sea and the sun.

Next second, he was flying onto the hot sand, getting trapped between the uneven ground and someone’s sweaty body.

“Michael!” Arthur exclaimed, trying to get out from under him. He was scowling in displeasure, although they both knew perfectly well it was just an act.

Arthur had always been just a bit uptight when it came to expressing his affections. He used piano pieces to convey his emotions to others and, sometimes, to himself as well.

Arthur heard his mate guffawing directly in his ear.

“Get off, Michael, get...off!” Arthur tried to crawl out from under the body pressing him into the shore. He alternated between pushing at Michael and tickling him until Michael apparently had enough and Arthur found himself being straddled, his hands in Michael’s sure grip.

Michael’s blond curly locks fell on his face when he leaned closely to Arthur’s ear and blew softly on it, making Arthur squirm.

Michael laughed again, and Arthur remembered how utterly fucked he was for having fallen in love with his _friend_. His much older womanizer friend.

“Let’s go for a swim.” It came out a lot breathier than Arthur expected, but either Michael didn’t notice or feigned to do so.

“Aren’t you afraid to ruin your makeup?” Michael teased, but slowly sat up.

“Ha-ha, you are _hilarious_. Now, piss off, Michael. You’re still sitting on my legs, you know.”

“Oh, Arthur, come on, don’t be so grumpy! You are far too young for that, _baby_ ,” Michael flashed him a grin.

Bloody insufferable, thought Arthur, but even so couldn’t help being head over heels for his idiot of a friend.

“Don’t call me that, I’ve told you, like, a thousand times,” he said instead.

“What if I can’t help myself?” Michael murmured with a smirk. Arthur hated when he did that, talked in that flirty tone of his. It only lead Arthur on, tricking him into believing there was hope for his feelings to be reciprocated. Which probably was never going to happen.

Arthur tried to ignore the sudden pirouette into the abyss his stomach did at the thought of never being able to kiss Michael, always being the pathetic lovesick idiot who couldn’t help falling for his friend.

Some of his mood must have flickered across his face because Arthur watched as Michael’s expression softened, and he delicately touched Arthur’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Come on, Arth, let’s get into the water.” A small smile played at Michael’s lips and Arthur looked down at their joined hands. Just as friends, he repeated to himself, just as friends.

“Not afraid to mess up your hair?” Arthur raised his eyebrow.

Michael narrowed his cat-green eyes at Arthur, pausing for a beat before springing into action, quickly letting go of Arthur’s hand in order to grab him by the shoulders.

Taking advantage of Michael’s shifted weight, Arthur easily wriggled out from under Michael’s thighs, scrambling up and running into the cool azure water. He began laughing loudly, his mouth wide open, catching the salty taste of freedom on his tongue.

“ _Oh_ , let me just catch you, you little...” Michael sprinted after him, and Arthur felt light-headed from all the endorphins. He imagined they were filling him like little bubbles in fizzy drinks.

Arthur dived underwater and when he emerged he saw Michael’s bright green eyes staring at him in amusement.

“Blimey, Arthur, you’d make a perfect Disney mermaid princess! Just look at you. So perfect for the part,” Michael hummed, the deeply thoughtful look on his face making Arthur crack.

“You douche!” Arthur managed in between laughing. “If _I_ am a mermaid, then you are a _crab_!” This time, Arthur didn’t escape Michael’s clutching hands and was shoved under the water again for three brilliant seconds.

Arthur _loved_ swimming below the surface. He always opened his eyes to watch the curiously disfigured space, all the shadows from the air-filled world being nothing but ephemeral shapes without a solid definition of what they had to be or had to represent.

And if he stayed still in the water long enough, he could become an entity with the liquid, not feeling any of his limbs anymore. Arthur loved the feeling of being nothing more but sea waves, absolute and unconditional and independent in their ambiguity. It was frightening and immensely calming at the same time.

When Michael pulled him up out of the comfortable andante of the tide, the first words out of Arthur’s mouth were, “-- a red, wimpy, boring crab!”

The water was trailing down Arthur’s face and he licked his lips, tasting it. He tried to memorise every single sensation he was experiencing with every fiber of his being.

“You love me anyway,” Michael smirked, brushing Arthur’s dripping hair from his forehead.

“I do,” Arthur confessed, knowing Michael wouldn’t take it seriously.

If Arthur had to pinpoint Michael’s place on the piano keyboard of his life, he’d make him the middle C octave. Basic, reliable, natural. Center.

Michael saved his life, had been saving it for such a long time now. Arthur knew he didn’t deserve it and had always been left wondering just why Michael had bothered, that first time.

Perhaps, it was because Michael was just the kindest person to ever walk the earth. Kind and generous and gorgeous. Seriously, what was not to love?

“Stop staring at me like that, you look too smitten for my liking,” Michael quirked his lips. “Wanna find out who's the better sea creature?”

“Sure.” Arthur shook his head a little, feeling something ugly claw at the inside of his chest.

They stayed very close, diving into the sea, clutching at each other to prevent accidentally floating back to the surface.

Sun rays were slicing the atmosphere, making their surroundings look like the insides of Triton’s castle. Michael's eyes were open and his hair shone gently in the transparent glow.

_“Monet was more interested in how something looked when the sunlight was on it.”_

A sudden memory of another person who had been unconditionally kind to him blazed Arthur’s mind.

_Merlin._

Maybe there genuinely was something about Arthur and the sea being alike.

Arthur stared at Michael, who was trying to contain his air and not giggle and whose emerald eyes sparkled even in the obscure thickness of the flow.

Arthur realised there were only two things missing for him to be completely happy.

He wished he could hear the sound of _Allegro Moderato_ from J.S Bach’s _Violin Concerto No.1 in A minor_ right now.

And he wished he could kiss Michael. He’d burst into a million pieces of starlight and feel accomplished with his whole life.

Arthur looked up. From below the surface, the sunlight was distant but still so lucent. The water was delightfully pleasant, luring him to stay, and Michael's radiant smile made him content enough to do so forever.

Arthur carefully closed the distance and kissed Michael’s lips for the first time. He pressed harder, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, from the excess of sensations and the lack of oxygen equally.

In that precise moment, Arthur was absolutely, perfectly happy.

He decided Michael deserved to be happy too.

Arthur brought his hands up to Michael’s cheeks and held on for dear life.

He felt Michael’s fingers curling around his own.

The endless green before his eyes was the last thing Arthur saw before he shut his eyes and inhaled.

 


	2. Flashbacks

When Arthur was fifteen, he had a crush on a boy named Oliver.

They attended the same musical school, where Arthur played the piano and Oliver practised the violin. He sometimes accompanied Arthur, mostly on his Mozart pieces.

All their mates called Oliver "Owls". Partly because he once dyed his hair pure white. "It looks like I am an alien," he had said, smirking smugly at his peers. But mostly because he loved to stay up all night and was therefore almost always late for his morning classes.

Arthur had spent a lot of his evening hours wanking to the fantasies about Owls' hands. They’d be smart and firm but passionately tender, travelling up Arthur’s body with the same careful determination Owls navigated his bow. Arthur imagined Oliver’s eyes would be _owlishly_ wide, exactly like when he was drawn into some particularly expressive piece.

Oliver was not stupid and, naturally, not blind. He used to laugh and tease Arthur when they were alone in the classroom, staring intently at him as he moved his left hand up and down the neck of his precious violin.

Inevitably, it led to the point when Arthur stormed out of the classroom, having the king of all boners and trying to escape to the privacy of his own house. Oliver rushed after him, grabbed him by the shoulder and kissed Arthur on the lips, pushing him against the wall right there in the middle of the school corridor.

The kiss was clumsy and wet with too much saliva, but to Arthur it felt so good, so _desperate_ , he only pressed closer. That’s when he felt Oliver’s hard-on pressing into his thigh.

They hurried to Arthur’s house, sneaking their hands into each other’s lap on the bus, giggling and blushing.

Arthur’s dad wasn’t supposed to be home until the next day. One of his usual business trips. Arthur had been so used to staff-cooked meals and the hollow spirit of impeccably clean, huge, empty rooms that he had stopped paying attention to it long ago. It was just lonely most of the time.

But when Owls whistled once they got through the door, Arthur remembered that no one from his musical school actually knew he was filthy rich.

Arthur attended a part-time private Sheffield school, but none of his classmates there crossed with his musical friends. Arthur liked it better that way. He didn’t want to be merited by his social standing, always longing to be cherished unconditionally, simply for who he was.

Unfortunately, Arthur’s mother had passed away whilst giving birth to him, and all Arthur had of her was the grand piano in the hall and the ring he carried on a chain around his neck hiding it away from his father.

Arthur’s Uncle Gaius had given him the ring when Arthur started asking questions at the age of six. His father, Uther, ordered him to never speak of his mother again and told him to go practice Hanon’s 60 piano exercises. Arthur had been quietly upset for a long time. When his uncle asked him about it, he made Arthur promise not to tell Uther anything, sat in front of him in the old cosy chair and told Arthur what his mum had been like.

Arthur could still hear Uncle Gaius’ words. It wasn’t your fault. Later, as Arthur grew older, he realised that it actually was his existence that killed his mother. He didn’t know whether it was his fault, but he knew that his life was his mother’s death.

He thought he could understand why his father didn’t love him unconditionally then. It would have been like adoring the murderer of the love of his life.

Uther would have sent Arthur to a boarding school, if he had not been bound to Sheffield due to his music.

To Arthur, music and the ability to play had always been a sort of grounding technique. Whenever he couldn’t deal with the overwhelming emotions or stressful pressure, he would either push at the keys of his beloved instrument or, if that wasn’t available, Arthur would search through the memorised pieces in his mind until he’d found the one best suited for the situation and tap it on any nearby surface. It had proved to be a surprisingly soothing technique.

Arthur was standing behind Oliver, who was looking around the hallway in awe. He mindlessly started tapping the first movement of Mozart’s _Sonata No.1 in A for Piano and Violin_ , the one he had practised with Owls for so long, on the seam of his jeans.

“What a mansion you’ve got here, Pendragon!” Owls turned to him and smiled wickedly. “Which is the largest bedroom?”

“Um. My father’s?” Arthur stumbled through the words, not sure where this was going.

“Where?”

“Up the stairs, third door to the left. Why --” Arthur was interrupted when Oliver pulled him to the staircase by the arm, his eyes gleaming manically.

He dragged Arthur up, led him to his father's bedroom and pushed him inside.

“What-- Owls, we can't be in here!” Arthur exclaimed, watching the boy fall onto the enormous bed.

“Mmmm but why? Your father’s not coming home yet, is he?” Oliver asked, sprawling on the cover and smiling lazily.

“No. He’s on another business trip until tomorrow, but --”

“Come here,” Oliver called. He looked a little feverish and slightly insane, the bright glistening eyes full of earnest desire.

How was Arthur ever supposed to resist?  
~

He was in the middle of sucking Oliver off, lost in his lust, naked and hot all over.

Owls' hands were tugging at his silky hair, his voice sharp and shameless, and Arthur was so full of sensation, he felt on the edge of going legitimately insane.

He quickened his rhythm, taking Oliver's cock deeper into his throat, suffocating with _need_ and unrestrained emotions. Somewhat distantly, in the back of his mind, he was aware of a voice, chanting, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!”

His name being repeated in such a tone became a mantra in the background, a constant humming noise, so when he heard a loud _“Arthur!”_ , he decided Owls was close.

He felt Oliver’s hand pulling at his hair, hurting him. But he wasn't going to stop, even so, it was okay, he was going to let Owls know that. He wanted to communicate to him how much Arthur wanted Oliver to come down Arthur's throat, to mark him, to --

“Arthur, damn it, Arthur, Arthur, fuck!” Oliver was down right shoving him off.

Arthur couldn't understand what was wrong. He pulled back, confused, and tried to separate Oliver’s frantic screams from the insanely loud heartbeat in his ears.

They had been having such a good time and surely Owls had been enjoying it too, what with his moans and yelling...

_Yelling?_

Suddenly, Arthur heard with shocking clarity that there were two voices screaming.

One of them, the realisation tugged at Arthur’s brain, frozen with terror, belonged to his father.

He couldn’t remember any more of what happened next.

The only dreadful fragment that would haunt his nightmares for a long time afterwards, was the expression on his father’s face as he shouted at Arthur.

Arthur couldn’t remember the whole tirade, but he could still recall the words “disgusting” and “ill” and “disgrace” being thrown at him.

And the enraged tone, dripping with revulsion, when he was told to “Get. Out.”

“Don't bother packing. You are not going back to school,” Uther said nonchalantly.

“But, Father, I have a test today, plus my sheet music for tomorrow's recital is in my locker, and I need to practice a lot today, because...”

Arthur was too preoccupied to fully understand what Uther was saying.

At the same time, his mind was racing. He had been feeling panicky non-stop since yesterday, he hadn’t slept at all last night, and was therefore torn between the sick feeling of doom and a strange numbness, unable to fully make sense of reality.

“You are going to a hospital. Hopefully, they will be able to fix this -- whatever is wrong with you.” Uther looked at him with sad eyes and was, obviously, waiting for Arthur's gratitude.

“Hospital.” Arthur repeated, dumbly. He stopped shoving pencils and books into his bag and stared at Uther with glassy eyes. “Are you sending me to a loony bin?”

“Stop talking like a peasant,” Uther grimaced. “You obviously have a -- a problem, but we can manage to overcome that. If,” he gave Arthur a pointed look, “we try hard enough.”

“Right.” Arthur inhaled.

Exhaled.

Inhaled.

Distantly, he recognised Carl Orff's _O Fortuna!_ playing in his head. It was growing louder with every second. Well, probably, there _was_ something wrong with him.

Then again, at least it was Orff, outstanding and sophisticated, that came to Arthur’s mind in the moment of timorous distress and not some third-class would-be composer with Beethoven’s chords stolen and conveniently hidden in different octave. As if no one would recognize Beethoven's Allegro played in 3-line octave with some tech noise coming along to cover the shame of stealing, _really._ Where did those idiots even come from?

Arthur suddenly caught the trail of his thoughts. The timing for that kind of debate with himself was very, very sick.

Sick? Ah, yes.

“I am not ill, Father.” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He wished Wagner had not used those march rhythms, it was definitely messing with his concentration in the moment.

He looked at Uther. His father's lips were a hard line, a frown on his forehead, eyes a shade of steel.

Fuck. Arthur was in so, so much trouble.

Luckily, his father had raised Arthur to be a successful businessman. ‘You fiddling with those keys is just a leisurely pursuit to keep your mind relaxed," he used to say, never attending one of Arthur’s recitals since there was no need to ‘waste valuable time.’

Well, now he would have been proud of how quickly Arthur came up with Plan B, although he’d probably know soon enough. If it worked.

“I admit, however, that I might be a little confused. I’m ready to gladly accept any help I can get.”

Arthur's heart was beating faster with every word. He was a rubbish liar. And Orf _was not helping_.

“When are we going?” he asked casually, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the calculating nature of the question.

Uther's face became more relaxed. Arthur realised with surprise his plan was working.

His father gave him a sympathetic smile. Sort of.

“Immediately. I packed everything you’ll need. The doctor is already waiting at the hospital.”

Arthur felt sick. He supposed, anyone would be with their hearts in their throats.

An excuse, he needed just one tiny wee excuse to win some time. Just...

“Father,” Arthur began, trying to steady his voice and to not let the panic show in his eyes. He could do this. “May I ask a favour?”

“Yes.” Uther seemed dismissive, impatient to get it over with already.

“I would like to get the sheet music from my locker before we go. It’s unclear how long my stay there will last and I wouldn’t want to forget all the notes.”

By this point, Arthur in all seriousness started praying to God, the Universe, Orf that the trick worked. He desperately needed it to work.

Uther squinted his eyes at Arthur, the cold calculating gaze causing Arthur’s throat to tighten.

Busted.

“I have no knowledge of any musical instrument available there,” said Uther, a second away from walking out, along with Arthur’s single chance of escape.

“I don’t need a piano, father. I can practise the fingering and repeat the scales on any solid surface. It’s how musicians prevent losing the technique if they can’t play for a long time,” Arthur argued. This wasn’t even a lie, he knew of so many grand composers who advised that in their memoirs and interviews.

Uther measured him with a look. Arthur stared straight into his eyes, hoping the honesty of it would be convincing enough.

He knew what Uther must have been thinking. Arthur had never been the one to surrender. He was as stubborn as his father, never giving in without a fight, even when it seemed irrevocably hopeless.

The staring contest between father and son continued and while Uther was deciding on his answer, Arthur just feverishly chanted, " _please please please let it work I will never say a bad word about Liszt again even though it was so bloody selfish to compose the pieces for himself that bloody classical music rockstar oh my god sorry never again please I will never slur Beethoven again I will practise Mefisto’s Waltz until my fingers break just-_ ”

“Fine. You have my permission. Be ready in five minutes. And when we get to school, you have ten minutes. In and out. I don’t have time for your games,” Uther spoke, finally.

Immediately after that, he walked past Arthur out of the room.

Arthur let out a long exhale and his “thank you, father” was left hanging in the air.

But the nagging feeling that he had missed something didn’t let go. After going over the conversation one more time in his head, he knew what it was and it made his stomach twist in a heavy knot.

His father hadn’t said his name. Not once.

~  
"Be fast, I have a meeting at 12", Uther ordered, looking at his expensive watch.

"Of course, Father. I...I might as well clear my gym locker and grab my sports uniform, yes?"

Arthur needed his bag. Oh, actually, fuck it, he just needed this to work. With or without the sodding bag.

Uther glanced at him, at the bag, at Arthur again, at the watch.

"It won't take long.” Arthur prayed it was the right thing to say. It was.

Arthur was hurrying down the corridors to his locker. He tried to match his rushing steps to the rhythm of Stravinsky’s _The Sacrificial Dance_ , the last scene of the _The Rite of Spring_ ballet, which hadn’t let him go since he left the car. It was getting to him, all the neurotic violins and weeping cellos sending tiny impulses into his fingers, making them twitch.

He noted to himself absentmindedly how the name of the piece so accurately matched the situation he had gotten himself into.

Arthur remembered studying the ballet in his class and being terrified at the words “the chosen victim dances herself to death,” wondering how that might have felt.

Now, he supposed he could identify with the unfortunate character.

Arthur went straight for the gym changing room.

All the sheet music he might need had already been tucked into the secret pocket of his “hospital bag”. Arthur insisted on packing the bag himself, gathering all the things he expected to come in handy _when_ he would manage to escape. Frankly, five thick heavy folders bursting with sheet music weren’t considered to be items necessary for survival, but to Arthur, they were. As long as he had a constant in his life he could rely on, something to hold on to, he decided he could handle anything.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Upon entering the room, Arthur glanced at his watch. It had only been four minutes so far.

Let him be lucky today.

The gym changing room had a door leading to the football field. Arthur quickly crossed the distance, turned the handle and rushed into the morning air.

Naturally, at this hour, the field was deserted. He couldn’t take any chances though, he had to vanish from the open before anyone would notice him and the direction he was going, so Arthur started crossing the field.

He tried to stop his legs from involuntary quickening the rhythm. It reminded him of playing Schumann’s _Carnaval for piano op.9 No.12 Chopin_ , how his piano teacher had always been barking “ _maintain the tempo, Arthur, and one and two and three and four and five and six and_ ” one and two and three and for and five and six, counted Arthur, trying to appropriately time his steps with the notes in his head, keeping his posture as relaxed as possible.

When he was almost at the end of the pitch, Arthur contemplated slowing down and looking back, like in shoddy romance films. But he remembered Lot's wife and sped up through the trees, going into the forest without a single peek over his shoulder.

The thick pattern of trees was stretched out on one side of their very posh and very privileged school. _Fresh air is a necessity, not a luxury_ , they said.

Necessity indeed.

As soon as Arthur passed the first five trees, making sure nobody could easily see him in the midst of all the green, he started running.

Afterwards, Arthur could always remember the race clearly, despite the acute feeling of being on some sort of acid. Adrenaline was pumping through Arthur’s system with every frenetic beat of his delirious heart.

The bag on his shoulder was a nuisance, making it harder to push through the wicked branches that clawed at his clothes, at his skin, as if attempting to stop him, catch him and hold until someone found his struggling body.

The only music in Arthur’s head at that moment was white noise mixed with hysterical drumming of the blood in his ears. He knew he could do this.

He felt superhuman, almost flying across the uneven pine needle-covered ground despite the bag bumping painfully in his side on every step and the trees getting in the way. Nothing was going to stop him from winning.

After what felt like an eternity, Arthur saw an asphalt road, hidden in the middle of the vast green expanse.

He was out of breath, sweat dripping from his temples, his wet fringe stuck to the forehead. Arthur felt streaks of perspiration trickling down his spine and winced. He could really use a shower right about now.

He must look a picture. Clothes torn and dirty from all the cutting twigs of the angry trees, marking his skin, branding fugitive across his scraped face.

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He pulled up the hood, hid near the tree closest to the road and desperately hoped for a stray car to appear any time soon, preferably to save him from the dreadful failure of being discovered and brought back to the injustice of his father.

~

Arthur tried to calm himself down by tapping Gabriel Fauré’s _Pavane No.50_ on the trunk of the tree and humming along. He got through the whole piece twenty-three times before he heard the roar of a vehicle in the distance.

Grabbing his bag, Arthur jumped onto the track. There was a high chance of the car being his father’s, or someone else’s on their search for him. But Arthur was willing to tempt fate.

The car was approaching on a speed way above the limit and Arthur had a passing thought of how the headlights in the strange fog under the overcast English skies would be the last thing he saw in his life before he heard the screeching of tyres. The driver pulled the brakes and opened the door window to shout at him.

“Are you bloody insane?! What the fuck are you doing, standing in the middle of the road?” The driver stuck his head out of the window, gesturing wildly with his hand.

The man was approximately forty and a complete ginger. His messy thick hair evenly merged into a thick bright-red beard and he seemed to have no eyebrows, they were so pale.

The man’s generously freckled face was red with anger. Arthur just hoped the stranger was enraged enough to take his time cursing at Arthur. That way, Arthur would have the time to get close to the car and talk his way into coming along. That is, unless the driver was a vengeful prick who’d speed away just to spite his unfortunate road obstacle.

“Please, I need help,” Arthur called, not making any move to get out of the car’s way.

“I can bloody see that, you rum nutter!” the driver shouted back and banged his hands on the wheel. “Get out of the way!”

Arthur felt the tears welling in his eyes. This was the only car that might pass through here till noon, a serendipitous strike of luck, and if he missed it he would be discovered in less than an hour. His father was probably already searching the school for him.

Any moment now, he’d discover Arthur wasn’t there, figure out the way he went and...

“Please!” Arthur cried, desperately. His voice faltered and he let out an involuntary sob.

He brought a hand to his eyes, holding his breath to stop himself from breaking down into pathetic weeping. Even so, his shoulders started shaking with silent tears and he couldn’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tried.

He heard careful steps and then a hand gingerly touched his shoulder.

“Hey, kid...Are you okay?”

Arthur tried to compose himself enough to explain the situation, but when he opened his mouth to answer, all that came out was a loud whimper

Ah, to hell with that.

Choking and gasping with violent tears, Arthur tried to communicate that he had escaped from “abusive parents, they want to send me away, I just need to get, to get to my legal guardian, I don’t have anywhere else to go, please help me,” but it all came out so thin and broken, Arthur didn’t know how much the driver was actually able to understand.

“Okay, okay, mate, come on, stop this, yeah? We’ll get you to your guardian, no need to cry a river, oi, come on.” The man clutched his shoulder and led Arthur to the vehicle.

Despite the all-known rule to never let strangers sit behind you in your car, the driver nudged Arthur precisely to the back seat door, opened it, but before Arthur could squeeze himself into it, the man stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Just so you know, I have a legally purchased pneumatic gun that I have the right to use in self-defense. No tricks, kid, I am very edgy,” he said, looking Arthur in the eye, deadly serious.

Arthur nodded, sniffing, and dived into the saloon. He crouched down on the seat, as low as he could, so he wouldn’t be visible through the windows.

The driver got into the vehicle and sighed. After a moment, he slipped it into gear and they pulled away.

 

 

 

 

 

min

| 

Uther

| 

Arthur  
  
---|---|---  
  
4

| 

Sitting in a car, mentally going through his weekly schedule.

“Tell Catherine to pick up a new tie for me for the charity event on Friday”

| 

Walking from the car to the gym.

“ _Please make it work_ ”  
  
4

| 

“I told him I have a meeting. What, now his illness is affecting his sense of time?”

| 

Going through the field, cautiously counting the steps. “And one and two and three...”  
  
2

| 

Drumming fingers on the wheel in mild anger.

| 

Rushing into the forest with his heart in his throat.  
  
10

| 

Calling “the imbecile” on the phone.

“Who does he think he is to waste my time?!”

| 

Throwing the insistently ringing onto the side without stopping, the noise of it vibrating on the ground reminding him of the close chase. “Pity I have to leave my phone. I could have sold it. Ah, GPS is a bitch.”  
  
5

| 

“That’s it. He thinks he can slug around? He definitely needs to be taught a lesson.”

| 

Running, running, _running_.  
  
5

| 

Where is the bastard?!

”Hello, yes, have you seen my son?”

| 

Tapping Fauré on the tree, nervous fingers slipping and pushing the tempo five times faster.  
  
20

| 

“I apologise, Mr Pendragon, but it seems he is not here”

“ _HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!_ I believed you were supposed to know where your students are!”

“But you said yourself he will not attend classes today due to an illness. Is there a problem?”

| 

Trying to get his breath back to normal, sniffling occasionally, riding in the backseat of a car. Trying to convert a simple song on the radio into a piano piece in his head.

“What music do you listen to, kid?”

“Classical.”

Pause.

“What are you, seventy years old or something?”  
  
10

| 

Searching through the school, ordering the staff to rummage every single classroom. “He couldn’t get far.” Coldly ignoring confused and worried glances from the headmaster.

| 

“If you could stop here, please.”

Getting out. Looking straight into the watery-blue man’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“Cheers, kid. Take care.”

Crossing two more streets and quickly diving into the building with a “Drug Store” sign on it.  
  
  
~

“Uncle Gaius?” Arthur entered the shop warily.

As he calculated how much time might have passed, he figured his father simply hadn’t thought to call his uncle yet, so he wouldn’t be aware of the reason why Arthur had come to see him so unexpectedly.

Arthur came up to the counter just as his uncle was leaving the staff room.

“Ah, Arthur, my bo --” He stopped mid-sentence and gave him a look-over.

Arthur suspected he must have been quite a sight. Red puffy eyes, pale paths of tears on his cheeks, dishevelled hair with a couple of wayward sprigs in them, but mostly the haunted expression on his face appeared to shock his ever-muttering uncle into dead silence.

“Hello, Uncle.” Arthur went for a light tone, but his voice sounded gravelly and uneven.

“Arthur, what on Earth --” Gaius began, but Arthur interrupted him.

“I need you to trust me,” he stifled an upcoming sob, aware that tears wouldn’t help anything. Yet a tiny weeping sound dropped from his tightly-pressed lips.

That was enough of an indication for his uncle to hurry to Arthur’s side.

Arthur had _never_ cried in public, not since he was eleven. Not since getting an unreasonably harsh scolding from his father about bursting into tears while his music teacher was still present in the room. Arthur didn’t even bother to explain that his tears had been out of anger. He had been so frustrated at his own failure by not getting a particularly complicated phrase in Rachmaninov’s _Elegie Op.3 No.1_ right, he had lost all the impeccably drilled control. His inability to vent his emotions any other way resulted in austere weeping.

That was probably the reason why Arthur remembered the familiar melancholic tune, the flood of ghostly distress making his body convulse with violent sobs.

Arthur felt the comforting hands of his uncle gathering him in a secure guarding embrace.

It took him quite some time to get his breathing under control enough to draw back a little and mutter broken sentences into his uncle’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do, and I need to go, please, I didn't do anything. He wants to lock me up in a nut house, please. I didn't mean to, I just needed, I want to, why can't he, just, please, I don't have anyone else, and I need, please help me, Uncle, please --”

Arthur’s rushed nonsense of words ended abruptly on a high-pitched noise as he collapsed back into crying.

“Arthur, Arthur, calm down,” Gaius soothed, softly patting him on the back. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

After a moment, Gaius sat with Arthur on the wooden bench in the shop and listened to him quietly recite the events of the last two days.

When he was done talking, Arthur got up and started nervously pacing the room, wringing his hands whilst Gaius just sat there, silent.

Arthur stopped in front of him.

“Please, Uncle, help me. I don't want to go to the hospital, I don't want to --” Arthur's breath hitched and, in a weak attempt to silence another desperate sob, he brought his hand to his forehead, pressing the heel of his palm into it, concentrating on it and not on the next words to come out of his mouth.

“ _Whydoeshehatemesomuch?!_ ”

Gaius got up and hugged Arthur again, stroking his hair until Arthur’s breathing evened.

He sat him down on the bench and went to the phone on the counter.

Arthur felt numb, watching everything happening around him like a sequence of short high-saturated video clips.

Uncle Gaius calling Morgana's principal to summon her, bringing the money Gaius had been saving for an emergency from their flat.

A hot cup of tea appearing in his hands.

His Mother's ring glistened in the sun. Arthur vividly recalled that moment when Gaius had gaven him the ring. And when Arthur became old enough to be able to wear it on his index finger instead of on a chain around his neck, Uther seeing and recognising the jewelry. Him yelling at Arthur, “You have no right to wear it! Who gave you this?!”, grabbing and shaking him. Arthur remembered the realisation piercing his mind, _Gaius cares more about me than my own Father_.

Morgana's pale face outside the shop's door.

Morgana was his half-sister and, being Uther’s illegitimate child, she had been decidedly put in Gaius’ hands. He was a family friend, not a blood relative, but Arthur had always thought of him as his uncle.

Morgana was raised in Gaius’ tiny flat instead of Pendragon’s mansion and attended a simple school instead of a high-class privileged one.

However, Arthur would have gladly switched places with her if it meant to be loved instead of being constantly neglected.

_"I would never try to ruin your kingdom, Arthur," she had once said when they were little children and Arthur had been staying with his Uncle for some time while Uther had another business event at the house._

_They found a book about King Arthur, Merlin the Wizard and the Mad Witch Morgana._

_"If you ever go mad, Morgana, I will let you live under my bed and I’ll always listen to your stories and we will constantly drink tea." Arthur said with a determined frown on his little forehead._

_Morgana seemed to think about something for a while, sucking at her knuckles, as she always did when considering something._

_"You think I’ll have a lot of strange hats like the Mad Hatter?" she finally asked._

_Arthur glanced at her head. Her short raven hair lay in wonderful waves. Arthur had always liked how every colour seemed even brighter on it._

_"I think any hat, even a strange one, will make you even prettier, Morgana. But I won’t let you mix orange with green, so don’t you worry", Arthur said sincerely. He had discovered that that particular combination of colours was the most unattractive one._

_Morgana smiled and hugged him, huffing warm air into his ear._

_It tickled._

Morgana quietly entered the shop and stood, staring at Arthur.

“Ah, dear. Give me that and lock the door, please.” Gaius held out a hand for the envelope she was clutching to her chest.

Arthur finally felt safe.

Everything was going to be fine. Gaius would help him. Morgana would never leave him.

He was going to be all right.

“Now, Arthur,” said his uncle after checking placing the envelop on the counter. “I am going to call your father and tell him you are here. No, listen,” Gaius held his hand in a stop sign as Arthur opened his mouth to yell a litany of _no_ ’s.

“We don't have much time. You need to trust me, Arthur. All right?”

Arthur took in the kind and sincere expression on his uncle’s face and the minute panic subsided. He didn’t want to become paranoid and acquire an actual reason to go into a mental hospital, now did he?

So he swallowed through the lump in his throat and managed, “Okay, uncle. Yes, I do trust you.”

Gaius nodded and picked up the phone. Glancing at Arthur, he put it on speaker, motioning for him to be silent.

“Yes.” Uther barked in steel voice. Arthur felt his stomach churn in panic. The voice was haunting, sounding too close as if Arthur hadn’t gotten away at all.

Arthur pressed his lips tighter in attempt to stifle a frightened sob.

“Uther? This is Gaius. Arthur is here.”

“Does he know you are calling me?” Uther instantly inquired, his harsh tone jarring Arthur’s ear like a particularly nasty tritone.

“No, he doesn't,” Gaius pointedly looked at Arthur.

“Good. Make sure he stays where he is.”

“Uther, I gather the boy is too scared to go anywhere else.”

“Indeed, the child knows too well it is not possible to outsmart me. He will be found out the second he steps outside. I have enough loyal men to bring him back. As a matter of fact, I will be sending someone to pick him up shortly.”

Arthur choked down a horrified whine. His hands were shaking so violently that the tea threatened to spill over the rim of the mug.

Morgana sat beside him, taking the cup from his hands and squeezing his fingers tightly in her grip. Arthur held on to the painful sensation like a drowning man to the floating wreck of a ship.

“Uther, with all due respect, I think it's best for all of us to have him stay here until tomorrow. You know your son, he will not give in quietly, and there is no use in making a scene. I will talk to Arthur and calm him down. I am certain that would be the best way of action in this situation.”

His Father didn’t reply for a moment, and Arthur’s mind burst with images of Uther already giving orders to get Arthur from the shop. He was tense, ready to jump up and run in any direction as long as it took him further from Uther.

“That does sound plausible. However, I strongly advise you to make absolutely sure the boy doesn’t escape, Gaius. I am holding you personally responsible if it happens.”

The feeling of dread punched the breath out of Arthur’s lungs. Whatever happens, it’s going to be bad, either for him or his Uncle.

He felt like he was trapped and the walls were closing in, sucking all the air out of the room. A shuddering sob broke from Arthur’s throat.

“What was that?” Uther demanded.

“What?” Frankly, it was admirable how Gaius managed to stay completely calm under these threatening circumstances.

“That noise.”

There was no point in feigning ignorance with Uther, playing the “what pumpkin?” game with him. It would only enrage him more and make him suspicious.

“Oh, that was Arthur. He just came into the room from the bathroom.” Gaius replied with easily believable honesty in his voice.

“Is the boy _crying_?” Uther snarled with disgust in his voice. Arthur shuddered again from the sheer disdain he heard in his Father’s tone. “That only proves it. The child is completely deranged. My son would never cry, in any case.”

Arthur hastily freed his hands from Morgana’s and covered his face with his palms. He didn’t know if he could keep it together any longer.

“I suppose you know your son better, Uther. I should go now, Arthur mustn’t know I called you. He will be ready to leave for the hospital in the morning.”

“Yes, I -- Wait. How do you know his destination, Gaius?” Dangerous undertones to Uther’s voice made Arthur stomach drop. If his Father caught Gaius on a lie, all of them were done.

“I find no little offence in your lack of trust, Uther. Arthur shows up on my doorstep in the state of utter devastation. Of course I am going to ask him what is the matter. Isn’t that the first thing anyone would have done?”

“Yes, of course. Pardon me for my suspicions, Gaius. You have never been other than a loyal friend to me, and I respect that. I believe it is time to call of the police now seeing how the child is under your secure watch.”

At the word "police" Arthur's head had snapped up. He had completely forgotten the possibility of the force getting involved.

He had been just so lucky nobody had stopped the car on his way here.

“Suffice to say, the officer’s presence will only complicate the matters. I will see to it that Arthur is safe,” said Gaius, looking Arthur in the eye.

“Very well.” Uther finished the conversation, disconnecting with no further ado.

Silence fell upon the room.

Arthur turned his head to his sister. Morgana looked mortified, her face unnaturally pale, like that time when she had gotten a violent cold.

She must have been thinking the same thing as him. If Arthur disappeared anywhere, the fault would be on Gaius’ shoulders and then God knows what Uther would do in his rage and God knows what was going to happen to Morgana.

He stood up on folding legs, bracing himself. Another thing his Father had drilled into Arthur’s mind was to always take the responsibility for his actions. How proud would Uther be of his son making a stand if only he didn’t talk of Arthur as an abomination at this point.

Arthur announced it was going to be all right, that he would wait till the next morning and try to come up with a maneuver to get lost on the way to the mental facility so that no shadow fell on his Uncle and sister.

He was almost done with his speech, about to finish with a joke, _Ha-ha, what a plot twist, at the end of the day it had been him who went mad as a hatter, Morgana_ , to try and lighten up the mood in the room when Gaius approached Arthur and cuffed him on the head.

“You stop this chivalrous talk of self-sacrifice, boy! I am much older than you and I presume that grants me the authority to decide whether or not I am prepared to go through ‘all this trouble’, as you put it, and choose the way of action. I have no intent of giving up on you for the sake of saving my own skin. I have never feared your father and I am not about to start now.”

Morgana was at Arthur’s side in a second, clutching him in a tight embrace.

“We won’t let him hurt you, Arthur. It’s going to be okay,” she breathed in his ear.

It tickled.

He hugged back shakily, clinging desperately to his sister.

“Thank you.”

They stayed like that for a while. Arthur felt like he was six again, sure they would protect each other no matter what.

“Arthur.” Gaius's voice returned him to the bitter present. “I’m sorry, my boy, but we need to act fast. All the time left is until the morning.”

Arthur nodded, letting go of Morgana’s warm shoulders.

“Arthur, you will have to practically disappear until you are twenty-one. Your father will need a court decision if he wants to put you into a mental facility by then.” His uncle looked tired, a grave mournful expression on his face making him look so much older.

Arthur nodded again, not trusting himself to speak in fear of collapsing into crying again.

He’d have to go away, part with his friends and Gaius and Morgana. He wouldn’t even be able to contact them from time to time in fear of Uther tracing the call.

He would have to be completely alone for the long period of the exile of his own choice. The ambiguity of the dark void of a future terrified him, but it was either that or a definite fate of being locked up in a nuthouse.

As they packed all the things Arthur might need in the foreseeable future, all three of them tried not to think about the daunting fact that Arthur had to somehow survive the long five years and two months before he could safely live once again.

~  
2:00 pm, May 15th 2008

Only when comfortably sitting in a speeding train could Arthur finally let out a breath and think.

He tried to recount everything that had happened in the last hours in order to make some sense of it in his head.

Despite his attempts to arrange the events in some sort of order, Arthur could only remember pieces of reality peppered with a soul-consuming terror.

Gaius, hastily emptying his boxes in the store to find every single penny, shoving money into Arthur hands, refusing to hear a word of objection.

Morgana, silently crying and packing the food bought at the nearby supermarket.

The anxious rush to the station with all the bags in hand.

The short rough fingers of a man checking his documents and Arthur feeling his heartbeat pounding painfully in his temples.

The nervous seconds before the train departed from the station, smeared with the feeling you get when watching the spy films. He won't succeed, he won't succeed, Uther will somehow learn about this and they will catch him at the last second.

Only after the train had continuously rushed past land for fifteen minutes, Arthur felt like he really fulfilled his escape plan.

He was finally self-aware enough to notice his surroundings and make sense of the noise that had been a constant somewhere in the background.

Apparently, some kid decided to listen to his music aloud, given that the coach was practically empty on a busy day afternoon. Arthur listened closely to the unfamiliar song, so different from his own usual playlist.

He chuckled as he heard the words of the chorus.

_Run fast for your father, run fast for your mother, run for your children, for your sisters and brothers_  
_Leave all your love and your longing behind_  
_You can’t carry it with you if you want to survive_

**_if you want to survive_ **

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael rushed Arthur to the shore.

Arthur’s body was frighteningly limp, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, making him look innocent and childlike, and not like someone who had supposedly harboured an elaborate twisted plan to kill themselves for a long time.

Michael dragged Arthur’s lifeless frame on the sand, croaking “help” in a raspy voice and going for CPR.

Granted, Michael was a doctor, which doubled Arthur’s chances, but he also knew that the survival rates in cases like Arthur’s were meak seven per cent at best. His brain automatically supplied the statistics as Michael hurriedly went through the motions.

Although, thought Michael angrily, it was unlikely Arthur wanted to be in the lucky seven.

Funnily enough, in films, when they showed someone being revived after drowning, the victim often spilled out pure water, showing delightful signs of life.

In reality, it was bad. It was messy and horrid and disgusting, a body rejecting the inevitable end, making itself convulse with vomiting stomach’s contents, ragged lunges spitting out blood and saliva oozing endlessly out of the mouth.

Dying has never been romantic. It was always a long process, ugly in its terror.

Michael had seen too much of that. Too much of death and of people refusing to fight.

He was fed up, he decided, watching paramedics hurry Arthur’s living-breathing body into the vehicle.

He was fed up with Arthur’s “first world problems” bullshit.

Michael had helped him that first time.

He had helped him to hide from his father, had given him the safe place to live, didn’t ask anything of him.

And if Arthur was insane enough to flush it all down the toilet, well, it wasn’t Michael’s problem anymore, was it? He could only do so much.

Michael had seen death so much that somewhere down the long road, he just stopped caring for those who did not appreciate what they had.

If Arthur wanted a way out so much, Michael would gladly give him one. Frankly, he began to get tired of the troubled kid getting in his face.

On the way to the hotel, Michael tried not to think of the relief he felt about finally having the perfect excuse to throw Arthur out of his life. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

~ 11:23 p.m., 6th of November 2012, London

Michael stormed into the flat, deadly silent in his rage, grabbed a bin bag and started frantically shoving Arthur’s stuff in it without hesitation.

Meanwhile, Arthur just stood in the threshold, watching.

He was still a bit weak after all that had happened.

When he had woken up in a hospital, hooked up to different sorts of tubes, he couldn’t remember what had happened.

At first, he couldn’t even remember his own name, until a doctor came in and started asking him questions.

Apparently, there had been too much water in Arthur’s lungs for it to be an accident, but luckily for Arthur, the doctor didn’t seem to care too much.

He had asked Arthur routine questions, making a brief reference to the multitude of scars decorating Arthur’s body, before sighing in response to Arthur’s “I swear it was an accident, I forgot I was underwater” and prescribing obligatory tests.

By the identification bracelet, Arthur realised they had used his real name. He had suspected Michael was the one to positively identify him and the hospital didn’t need to call Uther, but even so, the news would get to him soon enough.

Arthur hoped they would get back to London sooner than Uther got to them.

They ran the all the tests that same day, and the next morning Arthur was free to go, with a prescription for some medicine and a mournful look from the staff.

He was just happy nobody locked him on another 72-hour suicide watch or, worse, reported him to the police.

Michael had picked him up, but never said a word.

In fact, Michael had been silent during the whole trip back to the UK, back to their -- his -- flat.

And now Arthur stood, shaking slightly, tracing Michael’s every sharp movement with careful eyes.

“Michael...What are you doing?” Arthur asked softly, knowing that was a stupid question.

It was painfully obvious what his friend was doing. Picking up every single thing Arthur owned and bit by bit filling numerous black sacks.

Michael continued to be silent as he methodically went through the living room. He went into Arthur’s room and came out a moment later with a pile of clothes, stuffing it haphazardly into another rubbish bag.

When he was done, Michael kicked three loaded bags at Arthur’s feet and stood two metres away from him. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Arthur with cold eyes, waiting.

“Michael.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Is this...”

He trailed off.

Arthur was certain Michael was angry with him, it was quite obvious.

But at the same time he knew it was no secret to Michael that Arthur had nowhere else to go. He also had no money to speak of, all the expenses usually covered by Michael himself. Arthur didn’t have a job or even a chance to get one, especially in London. He also had no one else to turn to, even if Arthur were the type to ask for help. Which he absolutely wasn’t, and Michael surely must have known that.

Arthur was about to say something, but Michael beat him to it.

“This is me being done with your shit, Arthur. I’m fed up, yeah? I’ve done everything I could for the poor little abandoned boy you pretended to be. And what do I get?! A fucking nutcase, a bloody stupid suicidal freak to bother with!” Michael spat the words, his face ugly with disgust when he said Arthur’s name.

Arthur felt like it wasn’t happening. He couldn’t believe the words he was hearing, the burning _freak freak freak_ going through his mind on a loop.

Arthur tried to ground himself, to get back into the here and now, so he made himself remember any musical piece as a proven method. After the first few bars of Pergolesi’s _Stabat Mater Dolorosa_ , Arthur was able to finally distinguish Michael’s words from the foggy shadow of the shock.

Arthur briefly wondered if that particular music came to his mind because he felt like he was being betrayed and meticulously crucified by the person he loved most.

“And you know what, I think you father was right,” Michael was saying spitefully, “I think you should have been sent in a mental hospital, seeing as how you only destroy everything you touch.”

Michael paused, as if thinking about something.

“Wait a second. You kissed me, right before you decided to be the next bloody Hemingway, you _kissed_ me!” He seemed to turn the word over and over in his mouth, wincing at the taste of it. “You fucking faggot! Did you think I was like you?! Did you think I’d ever --” Michael cut himself off, his face red with rage and twisted in plain repulsion.

Arthur felt his eyes sting. He put his hands behind his back and sank a blunt nail of his thumb into the skin of his wrist, the overwhelming ache in his chest finding little outlet in the weak streak of pain in his arm.

“Michael!” Arthur pleaded, desperately, knowing his voice shook, but he just needed to say something, to defend himself against Michael’s atrocious accusation. He had to remind Michael they were _friends_ , for Christ’s sake, and they could work it all out.

But Michel put out a palm, and in tone full of poisonous condescension, groaned, “Arthur, go. Don’t make me throw you out on the pavement. Just go.”

Arthur froze for a second, and then made a vigorous effort to bend down and pick the bin bags. He ordered his body to turn and his legs to walk, but before he opened the door, Arthur looked back to see if there was something to be done yet. If there was a slight change in Michael’s demeanor, if there was still hope.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Michael yelled, “Get out!” and shoved at Arthur’s back.

Arthur remembered fumbling through the door and being genuinely afraid Michael would push him down the stairs.

He hurried out of the building, ashamed and heartbroken, heavy bin bags in his trembling hands.

It was cold and windy outside, and Arthur went to the place he had always known was waiting for him.

Another nameless park, another random bench, and Arthur, helplessly crying and putting on layer upon layer to stay warm, was the picture only a single star witnessed from behind the clouds, too comfortably hidden to be seen from Earth.

~ 10:15 a.m. 8th of November 2012

Arthur had been wandering through indifferent London streets for two days before he decided to go back to his old routine of survival. The whole time he had been grounding himself with numbly replaying Mahler’s _Quartet for Strings and Piano in A Minor_ over and over in his mind. The piece was somewhat soothing, toning down the perpetual painful sensation in his chest.

Sometimes Arthur felt as if his heart was made of strings. And they were drawn taut, on a verge of breaking from all the overwhelming emotions. Arthur would imagine compassionate bows touching the strings of his heart, bleeding the music out, bringing him the desired relief.

Soaking wet from the rain and exhausted, he stopped in the deserted corner of the street, hiding behind a building to sort out through the bin bags.

He fished out his beat-up duffel bag, the one that had been his loyal companion since the very start.

Arthur decided to fill the bag with the most necessary items, intending to sell everything else to a second-hand shop.

A fancy bathroom kit, three changes of underwear, four pairs of socks, three t-shirts, a white long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, a hat, a scarf and a pair of gloves fattened the duffel bag so thick, it was a struggle to zip it closed.

Arthur put a fourth t-shirt, a crimson shirt and a pair of black trousers into an empty packet to change his wet clothes to later in a public loo.

He sold three bursting bags full of stuff for fifty quid. It was much less than he had been expecting, considering most of the clothes was very expensive, purchased for him by Michael. But it was better than nothing. Arthur pocketed the money and went to stroll through the city, thinking about his options.

By the time the sun started to set on the horizon, Arthur still didn’t know what he was going to do. Nevertheless, he couldn’t spend the cold night on the streets.

The harsh November rain fell from the oppressing black skies. Arthur shivered, closing the neck of his black coat tighter around his throat. He hoped he wouldn’t catch a cold because in that case, he would fucked.

After stomping through the rain for a few minutes, Arthur found a decent-looking pub on the well-lit avenue.

As soon as Arthur entered the wooden doors, a grim-looking security guard raised from his stool in the corner of the room, coming to stand in front Arthur, blocking his way.

“Oi, where do you think you are going?” He put a hand to Arthur’s chest, pushing him back a little.

Arthur faltered. He hadn’t done this kind of thing for a long time, having given up visiting pubs completely whilst his stay with Michael. He suddenly realised he might have lost his grip.

Besides, a typical London pub was drastically different from any of those he went to in Plymouth. The standards for clientele in here were much higher than in the most prestigious places in the previous town. Arthur wasn’t sure his usual technique of getting in was actually going to work.

He opened his mouth to say something, but in a matter of seconds noticed the look-over the guard gave him.

Arthur hadn’t yet changed out of his soggy wet jeans, mud-stained from the splashes of dirty puddle water he caught while walking quickly under the pouring rain. His trainers were equally filthy. Arthur was meaning to clean them with them with a piece of a damp toilet paper in the loos. That was, if he managed to get there anytime soon.

The expression on the bouncer’s face was a mix of disgust and contempt. Arthur’s heart fell.

“Right, off you go, mate. Find some other place to hang out tonight, yeah? ‘Is a decent pub, not for the likes of you.” The man said dismissively.

Arthur stood frozen, slowly processing the information.

For the likes of _him_? What did this git think Arthur was, exactly?!

Arthur felt the heat of humiliation spread through his body. He became _furious_.

No one had the right to talk to him like that. No matter in what state he was, he remained Arthur Pendragon, and if he wanted to enter some stinky pub, he bloody well was going to.

Arthur raised his chin, his wounded pride making him bold enough to argue, and looked at the bouncer with cold disdain.

“Excuse me, but you have no right to speak to me like that. You have no knowledge of who I am and I don’t appreciate being addressed in that tone. I am a paying customer, your job is to ensure my safety, not to prevent me from entering the property.”

Instantaneously, the man stared at him in surprise. Perhaps, he wasn’t prepared for such a comeback.

“My job?” he drawled incredulously. “My job is to ensure none of the rubbish stains the interior. You come here with a black sack in your hand, greasy-haired and dripping wet, and tell me what my job is?!”

The man stepped closer to Arthur, hovering, and Arthur had no choice but to draw back a little.

“Listen, mate, I don’t know what your problem is, but I recommend you bugger off or I call the police and report you as a disturbance,” the guard growled.

That hurt like a punch to the gut. Every instinct in Arthur’s body screamed at him to fight back, to show the insolent twat his place before he realised that the prick was actually right.

Arthur looked like a homeless beggar, and the cruel truth was that there was nothing to be done about that.

He gave the man a final look, full of condescending superiority, turned on his heels and walked out with a straight back.

However, the second he turned the corner, disappearing from the sight, Arthur’s posture fell and his head lowered. With his last sense of significance destroyed, he felt as if there was nothing more left of him. He was devoid of his personality, unsure of who he was anymore.

He felt utterly and irrevocably broken.

~

At last, Arthur stumbled upon a shaggy café in the labyrinth of barely lit filthy backstreets.

Either the place could not afford a bouncer or did not even bother, but Arthur entered the wreck of a building with no trouble.

He went straight for the loos, changing his thoroughly drenched clothes and putting the ruined material into his last rubbish bag, throwing it into the bin. It’s not like he could wash and dry it anywhere.

Arthur awkwardly managed to wash his hair in the sink and dry it under the hot air of a hand dryer.

Looking slightly more decent, he went up to the bar stool and ordered a scalding mulled wine. It had cost him precious £3.30, but when the pleasant heat spread through his body, calming the anxious buzz in his veins, Arthur knew it was worth the price. After a couple of sips, he finally warmed up enough to stop shaking with cold.

Arthur shuddered, the last traces of chill leaving him, and took a look around.

There weren’t many customers. A couple of bald middle-aged men sat in the farthest corner of the room, drinking pints and talking quietly. At the nearest table, an extravagantly dressed woman was talking loudly on the phone. She was smoking, cigarette fumes travelling upwards and curling under the ceiling.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. The only pubs which allowed smoking were the ones who didn’t care about the laws because there ware no sane revisors to actually visit the forsaken places. He cursed internally. This meant his chances to get a place to sleep tonight by going with another faceless “customer” were slimmer than none.

At quarter past ten, a group of blokes barrelled loudly through the door, causing everyone to turn their heads.

Arthur recognised the type. It was essentially marked “trouble”. So he sighed, settling on finishing his glass of warm red and going to find some sort of shelter for the night.

He had no idea where to see for the aforementioned shelter, but he supposed the worst case scenario would be waiting out the freezing hours in a tube station.

Arthur downed the last drops of his drink, put the glass softly on the tabletop and thanked the barmaid. She looked at him strangely and told him to “stay safe, love”.

Arthur felt a slight pang in his chest at the words. Arguably, one technically could call him a whore, but Arthur would rather admit to be a _warmth_ whore. He was ready to do anything to feel somebody’s comforting presence, hear kind words.

He briefly contemplated staying under this roof until the bar closed. He could have a chat with the barmaid and perhaps there was some work he could help her with. But then Arthur shook himself out of it. She was just being polite, obviously. Besides, he couldn’t afford to spend his limited amount of money on unnecessary drinks.

With a small smile and a “Cheers”, Arthur picked up his bag and walked out. The pouring rain had stopped, and Arthur stood for a moment near the doors, looking at every direction.

Finally, he sighed and took off. If anyone were to ask him where he was going, Arthur’s only possible answer would have been “forward”.

~  
Arthur had been turning corner after corner, following an intricate pattern of dim shady streets, but still heard the following footsteps.

At first he thought it was just another unfortunate inhabitant of the city with no definite purpose. But as he made sure to choose the most deserted paths, it became clear that he was being stalked.

Finally, after rounding another brick façade, Arthur came to a halt upon seeing that the path ended with a high stone wall in front of him.

 _Shit_ , he thought. He turned abruptly in hopes to quickly get out of the dead end before his ghostly follower caught up with him, but realised it was too late when he saw two dark silhouettes blocking the way.

Two of them.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , Arthur’s mind was racing. He had no idea what to do. He couldn’t flee because for starters, he had absolutely no sense of where he was. And secondly, even if he knew which way to run, he’d have to get through those two strangers first.

So Arthur took up on the only available option -- fight.

But firstly, he had to get to his trustworthy knife without raising suspicion.

“What the fuck do you want?!” he yelled. “You want money?”

Arthur swiftly unzipped his bag enough to snake his hand inside and started palping for the hilt of the knife.

Before he could find it, though, one of the figures started approaching him threateningly. Arthur couldn’t see its face obscured by the darkness.

“As if you had any, eh, you pitiful poofter,” spat the attacker.

Arthur quickened his search for the blade, frantically rummaging through the contents of his bag.

“Yeah, well, what do you want from me then?” snapped Arthur, simultaneously trying to come up with some sort of strategy to get out of the situation unharmed.

“Hear that?” the closest to Arthur man sneered to his companion. “Already so pliant, whoring himself out for nowt!”

Arthur felt cold with terror. A simple threat of muggery just turned to something a hundred times worse.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur attempted to sound scandalized. Perhaps if he could talk himself out of this, he’d be fine.

“Look, he’s playing daft now that we’re down to business, eh,” came the reply from the other stranger who started walking slowly towards Arthur, stopping near his friend.

They were standing in about three steps from Arthur now, breathing loudly like bulls about to attack a toreador.

Arthur finally located the knife and swiftly pulled out the blade, efficiently zipping the bag closed. He tucked the case with the knife into the back pocket of his trousers, hoping he wouldn't need to use it after all.

He did come up with a plan, and it didn’t involved hurting anybody unless absolutely necessary. Arthur decided to battle his way through to get out of the blind alley and then run until he reached an open avenue. He assumed he might catch a night bus and get away to the other end of London to take a breather and reflect on his indistinct future.

Despite the lack of light, he could clearly see the movements of his opponents. He noticed the flaws of their positions that he could use to his own advantage. Arthur had never been more thankful for his father’s “becoming of a man” bullshit paranoia involving fighting arts training since the day Arthur was old enough to have a combat than that moment.

There was a second of absolute silence, the stillness of the air before the storm before Arthur felt the shock of pain on his right cheekbone. Immediately after, there came a punch on the left side of his face, and Arthur faltered, struggling to stay upright.

He took a couple of small steps back, driven by inertia of collision, and made a vigorous effort to swing his bag backwards, sending it flying over the men’s backs onto the concrete.

They automatically turned their heads around, minutely puzzled, and it was enough for Arthur to push at one of them, trying to break through. The attacker Arthur chose was left-handed, and it explained the placement of the first initial punch Arthur had gotten just seconds before. It also led to the drastic miscalculation of Arthur’s charge, when by grabbing stranger’s right hand he only opened himself to a violent blow in the stomach that sent him stumbling back and into the corner corner, holding on to the rough surface to retrain from collapsing on the ground.

“Yer not naffin off that easy, tom!” gnarled one of them in a low and repulsive voice .

He pushed himself off the wall, ignoring the flaming pain pulsing throughout his body with every movement, and forced his muscles to remember all the basic fighting techniques he’d learnt as a child.

Arthur squinted at the silhouettes, taking a couple of seconds to map out his next attack.

Despite the lack of light, he could clearly see the movements of his opponents. He noticed the flaws of their positions that he could use to his own advantage. Arthur had never been more thankful for his father’s “becoming of a man” bullshit paranoia involving fighting arts training since the day Arthur was old enough to have a combat than that second.

After only a moment, Arthur already had a clear plan of attack and escape. He was absolutely sure in a victorious outcome, so he reached around, gripped the handle of the knife, took a deep breath and launched forward.

~

Arthur was running, running, _running_.

Every heavy stomp of his tired feet echoed in sharp jolt of pain throughout his body, Arthur’s hectic breath rushing out in barely audible moans.

To keep himself from slowing down, Arthur tried to recall the boisterous _Night On Bald Mountain_ by Mussorgsky, but the ardent violins and obstreperous trumpets in his mind refused to form any sort of harmony, instead blasting in cacophony in time with the ruthless pulse in his temples.

At last, Arthur reached an avenue that surprisingly lay opposite an embankment.

Arthur turned right and with relief saw a bus slowing down at the traffic light in the other lane. He sped up so he would catch it at the stop he could already see ahead.

Arthur couldn’t believe his luck. He kept looking back at the bus as he sprinted forward, out of breath and aching all over, but thinking _almost there, almost there_ like a mantra, willing his legs to move faster, not giving his body a moment of respite.

So focused on the bus, Arthur didn't notice a car door opening until it was too late. At the last second, he managed to dodge the sharp metal corner, made a clever move to the side and crashed head-first into a transparent hard surface of the bus stop.

A blinding white-hot pain was the only existing thing for a devastating amount of time.

Gradually, Arthur grew aware of the fact that he was curled in on himself on the concrete, every cell of his body burning, and that someone was crying loudly. After a couple more seconds, Arthur realised it was him.

Gentle hands tugged at his shoulder, coercing him into relaxing his posture enough to “Inspect your wounds, mate.” Arthur felt foggy and disoriented, any movement at all made him feel violently sick, so he laid there like a rag doll with his eyes closed, dispassionately listening to the things happening around him.

“Gwen, hold his head.”

“Oh my God, Lance, is that blood? Is he bleeding? We need to get him to a hospital!”

“Hang on...I can see blood, but I can’t find the source. It should be here...Holy...”

“What is it? Lance! Is it bad?!”

“Wait, let me check his other hand...No, it’s fine, Gwen, I mean...Bloody hell.”

The silence prolonged, and Arthur concluded he was better to open his eyes now.

The sight before him was slightly mortifying. First thing he noticed was that his sleeves were rolled up, and a man and a woman were exchanging worried glances, apparently upon seeing the numberless bulky constellations of scars on his arms.

Arthur’s eyelashes were heavy with moisture, and when he blinked, he saw red drops of liquid slide down his nose. For an insane second, Arthur thought he had started crying blood. The thought sent him into a hysterical fit of laughter that turned into moans as the pain coursed through his body.

There was an expression of fear on the woman’s face above him. It reminded him of Morgana’s pale face. The image flashed in Arthur’s mind, instantaneously sobering him up.

Arthur slowly sat up, noticing for the first time that his head was throbbing tremendously, making it hard to even look around.

“Um, mate? How are you feeling?” The man in front of him asked. He was looking at Arthur warily, still holding one of his wrists in his hand.

“Are you bloody serious?” Arthur croaked. His throat felt like it was full of broken glass. Arthur could feel the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

“Lance, we have to get him to a hospital!” The woman repeated.

“No, no, no hospital,” Arthur groaned, and made an attempt to get up, but yelped in pain as he tried to push himself up from the concrete. He brought his palm to his eyes and saw that it was scratched and bleeding. He must have hurt it when he fell.

“What’s your name, dear?” The woman asked. Arthur guessed the question was addressed to him, not the Lance person.

“Ah, it’s Arthur.” His mind was still too foggy to fully comprehend what was happening. He distantly recalled something being wrong with his name, but he couldn’t remember what.

“Hello, I’m Gwen. Arthur, you are hurt and you might have a concussion. Please, let us take you to the hospital,” Gwen pleaded.

She gingerly touched her hand to Arthur’s forehead and he saw it come away covered in blood.

“No, I can’t. No hospital, I won’t go there, I can’t, I...” Arthur knew there was a reason why he couldn’t, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

His frenzied rambling or maybe the angry marks on his hands seemed to convince Lance there was no way they would persuade Arthur to accept their offer because he suggested, “All right. Just let us take you to A&E, okay? No hospital, just Accident and Emergency room, yeah?”, instead.

Arthur nodded weakly. He didn’t know if the bloke was telling the truth or if they were even safe to go with, but Arthur was tired, so tired of running.

As he was crawling into the backseat of the couple’s car with their help, he had a passing thought of _If they kill me, I hope my body will be found and buried with my Mum’s_.

~

Apparently, Morgana was right every single time she called Arthur thick-headed, because miraculously, he didn’t have a concussion.

A doctor tended to his scratches and shallow cuts, cleaning his palms and putting a plaster on his wounded forehead.

Arthur was graciously allowed to wait the night out in the hospital waiting room, and only after Gwen and Lance had made sure he was absolutely safe, they bid him goodbye and left.

Arthur leaned his ringing head onto the wall, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

There were exactly eight months and nineteen days before he turned twenty-one. Until he could stop running and finally be himself. He could go see Gaius and Morgana without fearing for his life and safety. He could continue his education. He could finally be free.

Arthur had been feeling inescapably trapped for such a long time, he could only dream of what it would be like to finally stop the never-ending loop or paranoia.

Just walk the streets in the daylight. To hug Morgana. To eat the results of Gaius’ tragic cooking experiments. To be able to sleep without having to worry about the next trial of survival upon waking up.

Arthur sighed. Just eight more months.

Logically, he understood that it was nothing compared to all the time he’d already gotten through.

But physically, Arthur felt burnt out. Done. Drained. It felt like this nightmare would never end. Arthur suspected that even if he actually succeeded in living his life, this past would always haunt him, until the very end.

He slowly exhaled and decided to take one step at a time.

He needed to figure out what to do next. Well, the events of last twenty hours proved that he couldn’t go back to picking up anymore. And it wasn’t just about the difference from Plymouth situation to the London pubs.

Arthur had been locked in four walls of Michael’s secure flat for so long, he grew out of his alluring skills. He could still strike deals and make contracts, but he found he became unnervingly anxious when he had to talk to strangers, and when they touched him, his first instinct was to start throwing punches.

So picking up was out.

Arthur supposed he could try to get a job, but he wasn’t very optimistic about that either. He hadn’t been able to find a decent job when he first had come to London. And now his chances weren’t much better looking. If anything, they lay close to zero, what with him looking like a homeless person. Which he was, by the way, Arthur reminded himself.

In an impulse, Arthur fished out a cheap cell phone Michael had purchased for him from Carphone Warehouse and looked through the contact list. There weren’t much to look at.

_Contact #1: Merlin_   
_Contact #2: Michael_   
_Contact #3: Work Michael_

Arthur stared at the list for a long time before pushing some buttons and leaving the screen lit with only

_Contact #1: Merlin_

written on it.

Arthur contemplated his next move for a couple of seconds before deciding to send it all to hell.

_Hello, Merlin, this is Claude. Would you perhaps want to meet with me? I’m in London. Give me a call once you receive this. Cheers._

Arthur hit 'Send' without any second thoughts. If Merlin didn’t reply in twenty-four hours, Arthur would just have to think of something else.

Setting the phone onto vibrate so he could feel any incoming calls, Arthur put the phone in the pocket of his trousers. He got as comfortable as he could in the orange plastic stool, lowered his chin on his chest and, exhausted and medicated, fell asleep blissfully fast.

~

“Arthur? Arthur,” someone was gently shaking him by the shoulder.

Arthur cracked his eyes open. It took him a second to remember where he was and what had happened. Upon fully shaking off the sleep, he focused on the words the doctor in front of him was saying.

“Let’s get you checked one last time before you go, all right?”

“What time is it?” Arthur asked in a voice raspy from slumber.

“Ten o’clock.”

The doctor examined Arthur’s wounds and removed the bandages from his palms, applying some salve on the scratches instead.

Afterwards, Arthur excused himself to go the bathroom to inspect his face in the mirror. His fringe covered the band-aid on his brow, and his split lip had stop bleeding. But the rich purple of severe bruises covered his cheekbones and chin. Arthur made a face at his reflection. He had to wait until the bruises faded to take any steps towards finding a job or a place to stay. Right now he looked like too much of a trouble.

He exited the bathroom and walked to the doors, stopping on his way out to thank the staff. Just as he was about to leave, a man and a woman rushed into the hall, hastily looking around. When they noticed Arthur, their faces lit up.

“Arthur!” the woman exclaimed, and Arthur belatedly recognized her as the person who had brought him to the hospital along with her friend. But it was more than that.

The realisation dawned on Arthur in seconds it took for Gwen and Lance to walk up to him.

Gwen Smith and Lancelot DuLac. No bloody way.

Arthur had had a lot of free time when he had been living with Michael. He used to search the internet for music and watch videos on youtube, sometimes mindlessly clicking on suggested videos. This is how he stumbled upon a music video for some TV show, featuring a powerful piece called  _Times_ by Roberto Cacciapaglia.

It was such a breathtaking video that Arthur immediately googled the composer of the music. When he was done with hunting down every and each one of their work, he couldn’t resist the temptation of googling the show as well.

It turned out to be a modern retelling of a famous story of Joan D’Arc. The plot of the show focused on her early days, the life she had been living before the tragic events that led to her death happened. It also focused on her relationship with Charles VII, long before he had become the mighty King.

Arthur started watching the show out of curiosity and mostly boredom, but quickly became truly engrossed in the adventures of Joan and her future King. The cast was incredibly brilliant and Arthur ended up reading numerous interviews and watching sneakily-recorded videos of the actors at ComicCon.

Gwen played the leading role of Joan and Lancelot played the King. There always had been endless rumour of the actors being involved in a romantic relationship with each other off-screen, but no one had actually confirmed it. Yet.

Arthur didn’t really care if those two were dating, he just enjoyed the show and their interviews never failed to make him laugh. But he had to admit that the interaction between Gwen and Lance seemed fairly intimate, and the way Lance had always looked at Gwen like a lovesick teenager, never taking his eyes off her... Arthur didn’t really care, but sometimes he just wanted to present Lance with a pair of balls so the obviously smitten idiot would do something about his not-so-subtle crush. Although, Arthur supposed, it might have been just that the actors didn’t want to make their private relationship public. It was, after all, exclusively their own business.

And now that Gwen Smith and Lance DuLac were standing in front of Arthur, together, with concerned expressions on their faces, Arthur tried to prevent the shadow of recognition pass through his eyes. He didn’t want Gwen and Lance to have to worry about him keeping their secret journey to London to himself or make them uncomfortable with the unfair amount of personal information he knew about them.

Apparently, he had done a very good job, because after a moment, Gwen clarified, “We met last night, remember? We drove you here. I’m sorry, you might not recognize me, you were in a rather bad state. Oh, I apologise for my blabbing,” she smiled shyly. “I’m Gwen, and this is Lance.”

Lance offered his hand for a handshake, but Arthur raised his palms slightly, indicating the glistening balm spread on them, and Lance nodded with understanding.

“Yes, hello, I’m Arthur,” he said, glancing from Gwen to Lance and back. He decided to pretend they were perfect strangers to him. Which, in point of fact, they were. But it was hard to remember, giving that he had spent so many hours listening to them, it felt as if he had known them for a long time.

“Thank you for helping me last night. You are incredibly kind.” He nodded and was waiting for them to reply before he could politely walk away.

“Oh, it was no problem,” said Lance, but Gwen immediately continued as soon as he finished.

“It was my fault. I didn’t really look before opening the door, I’m so sorry. This was the least we could do.” She lowered her eyes bashfully, and Arthur felt wrong-footed. A strong pang of guilt for making Gwen blame herself pierced his chest.

“No, it wasn’t your fault.” His voice was firm, and when she looked at him through her eyelashes, he smiled. “It really wasn’t, I promise. You couldn’t have noticed me anyway, I ran out of the building corner and it was fairly dark on the street.”

Gwen’s expression softened and Arthur felt undeserving of the gratitude in her eyes. He just wanted to get this encounter over with. Speaking of that...

“Um, I hope I don’t come across as impolite, but what are you doing here?” he asked, for the first time realising they were standing in the foyer of A&E room.

It was Lance who spoke. “We wanted to make sure you were okay. And give you a ride home as an apology for what happened.”

Arthur felt gobsmacked. “You didn’t have to, really. Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have bothered.” He stared at them incredulously, not being able to comprehend how anyone could be that gracious.

“No, please, Arthur, let us do this,” Gwen pleaded, and Arthur realised he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one.

“Um, I really don’t...have a...” He paused, not knowing what to say. Although it was probably evident by now, he didn’t have it in him to admit that he was homeless out loud. It felt too much like asking for help or complaining. Arthur wasn’t the type for either of that.

“I’m afraid I don’t yet have a destination for you to give me a ride to,” he finished, and wished for it to be the end of it. The situation was becoming awfully uncomfortable.

“At least let us buy you a coffee,” Lance said, and Gwen looked at him tenderly. Arthur wished the Earth would just swallow him right about now.

“I apologise, but I really can’t accept that offer.” Arthur replied curtly. He was about to bid them goodbye and walk away, damn his manners, but Gwen touched a hand to his elbow, prompting him to look her in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we have to insist.” She said, and Arthur couldn’t really say ‘no’ to that firm confident tone.

“Gwen will lose her sleep over this if you decline, mate,” Lance smiled. “Please, save me the trouble.”

It was the final push. Arthur didn’t feel worthy of such a worry, but his polite refusal started bordering on rude attention seeking, so he uttered a sigh and smiled apologetically.

“All right, but only one cup.”

Gwen whole face lit up and she flashed a brilliant grin at Lance, who in turn stared at her in his usual lovesick-teenager fashion even after she started slowly walking towards the exit, helping Arthur to throw his bag over his shoulder.

Arthur subtly huffed to himself, amused. Despite his unwillingness to waste their time with someone like him, Arthur was shamefully excited about spending some time with the actors whose generous and joyful attitude reminded him about the good things still existing in the world.

~

They arrived at the deserted coffee shop, choosing a shadowed table in the corner. Arthur understood the unusual choice -- Gwen and Lance were famous enough for people to recognise them, and they subtly tried to avoid that.

When the waitress appeared, Arthur quietly made his order - black coffee.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” asked Lance carefully.

“The deal was a cup of coffee,” replied Arthur with a tense smile.

The waitress looked at them strangely. Arthur guessed she might have recognized the famous guests.

After Lance and Gwen made their orders, the waitress lingered at their table for a second too long, but then walked away with a polite nod.

Arthur felt like it was unfair to lie to them any longer so he sighed and said, “I think I should tell you now -- and I should have told you earlier, but you have to excuse the state I was in -- that I know who you are. I mean,” he hurried, “I know that you are actors in ‘ _Joan D’Arc_ ’. I am quite fond of the show.”

His companions exchanged looks. Arthur knew what they were thinking about.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this encounter,” he rushed. And then a bitter, “I don’t really have anyone to tell, anyway,” waywardly slipped from his lips.

He regretted saying it the minute it was out. It was a fucked up thing to do, whine at strangers like that. Arthur mentally slapped himself.

“Thanks,” muttered Lance, looking down. "It gets really tiring to have gossip following you wherever you go. Gwen and I just wanted to have a quiet trip to London, take a break from work and paparazzi and all that." 

An awkward silence that followed was interrupted by the waitress bringing their cups. She didn’t linger this time, only smiled openly at the actors, not even glancing in Arthur’s direction.

After she was gone, everybody at the table took a sip of their drinks. Arthur scalded his tongue on his.

He was putting sugar in his steaming coffee when Lance drawled, “So, Arthur...” But Gwen suddenly interrupted him.

“Arthur, do you have a place to stay?” she blurted, efficiently stabbing the giant elephant in the room, so to speak.

It was blatantly obvious by now that Arthur was homeless. He had changed his crimson shirt in the hospital bathroom, but the single pair of trousers he had been left with were still dirty after last night with all its fighting and running and lying on the concrete in pain. He tried to scrub the dried mud off as hard as he could, but patches of it stained his battered trousers severely, making him look every ounce the social outcast he was.

It was only a moment that passed, but Gwen already went on.

“Because we have friends here, in London, and you know, we would be able to arrange something. I’m sure they won’t mind if you stay with...”

“I’m not a charity case,” Arthur cut her off, unintentionally sounding irritated.

She looked taken aback. Her mouth was still open from the sentence she didn’t finish, and her eyes went wide. A couple of tense seconds ticked off before she recovered and began speaking again, evidently embarrassed.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t implying...”

“No, don’t apologise, it’s me who is sorry,” Arthur interrupted again, genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” He paused. “I do have a place to stay, I am not really...homeless.” He finished.

It wasn’t a complete lie. He did have a home, where Gaius and Morgana and all of his friends were. It was just unaccessible at the moment. And in the absence of a better truth, that would do.

His phone rang, the timing perfect.

“In fact, this is probably a call about that. Excuse me, I need to take this.” Arthur got up from the table and went into the bathroom.

“Hello?” Arthur answered the phone, closing the bathroom door. “Hello, Merlin? This is Claude.” He checked the stalls to make sure he was alone in the room, and leaned on the sinks, listening to the babbling at the other end of the line.

“Yes. Listen, can we meet tonight?..Great...Um, I was thinking we could go for a drink and then, perhaps, go somewhere quiet?..Yes, your place is perfect.” Arthur turned to stare at himself in the mirror. He took a breath, contemplating his next words, but then he saw his face and felt so hopelessly despicable, there wasn’t really any doubt about what he wanted to do.

“And do you have a friend? You know, someone into...your thing.” Arthur listened to the laughter on the other end, relieved that Merlin didn’t take his request badly. Then there was a question.

“Preferably, a dom. And a hardcore one.”

They arranged a time and a place, and Arthur hung up. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, and telling himself over and over again that it was the right thing to do. He deserved it. He needed so much pain to ease his despair, he was certain he’d die from blood loss if he were to quite literally take it in his own hands.

That Christmas in London with Merlin, it helped. It ought to work effectively again. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur got off the train at Bristol and following Gaius’ directions, went to the bus station, catching No.43 to Kingswood just as it was about to take off.

They hadn’t had much time for talking at the shop, preparing for Arthur’s long departure, so he didn’t really know anything about this friend of Gaius’, Alice, to whom he was going.

His uncle had written a quick note to give to her, probably explaining the situation. With what was about to break out once Uther found out Arthur was gone, Gaius wouldn’t have much time or opportunity to contact Alice directly. Maybe he did call her eventually, maybe he didn’t -- Arthur had no way of knowing for certain. He simply hoped he wouldn’t turn out to the an unwelcome guest.

With the help of a map Gaius had scribbled on a piece of paper Arthur found the modest hotel Alice held.

When he walked in, a fair-haired girl behind the reception desk welcomed him brightly. He approached her, asking for “aunt Alice”, just like Gaius had instructed him to. The girl smiled in response and pointed to the thick wooden door to his right. Arthur thanked her, turning to go introduce himself to his “aunt”.

Alice was a kind-looking middle aged woman with heather blue eyes and soft soothing voice. When she heard that Arthur was Gaius’ nephew, she hugged him to her chest, even before opening the letter.

Arthur was surprised at such an unconditional gesture of affection, and weakly hugged the woman back, willing himself not to cry at the tenderness of her acceptance.

She refused to talk with him until he was fed and rested. Alice provided him with a quiet room in the private area of the inn, making sure he was comfortable. She brought hot supper to Arthur’s room that evening, sitting down with him and talking about Gaius, asking how he was doing and making small talk about everyday affairs. Alice didn’t inquire into anything that concerned Arthur’s escape or his situation at all.

When he was finished eating, she stood up and took the tray.

“Sleep now, dear. We will discuss everything after breakfast. Don’t you worry, you are safe here, Arthur. Everything will be well.” Alice smiled and closed the door.

Arthur laid down on the bed and sighed. He wanted to believe her, he really did, but the devastating void of peculiar emptiness inside him obscured the hopeful future, forming a deep dark tunnel in Arthur’s mind.

His life had changed so drastically in the course of forty-eight hours, he felt like the world's been pulled out from beneath his feet.

But even though Arthur felt intensely anxious and uneasy, he fell into a deep dreamless sleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

~  
Next morning, they sat down in Alice’s office after breakfast to decide what Arthur was going to do.

After a long discussion regarding Uther’s power and Arthur’s safety, they came to the conclusion that Arthur had to get fake documents. Sure, they wouldn’t withstand any proper scrutiny, making it hopeless for Arthur to receive any medical attendance unspotted due to the strict rules of correct identification policy in hospitals. They also wouldn’t provide a useful disguise in case of any serious case involving the authorities. But for minor everyday operations, like registering into a library or checking into the hotel, the papers would do.

Alice suggested Arthur would work in the hotel for the remaining three months of summer, free of rent and saving all the tip money he would get for the future. They didn’t discuss that mysterious “future”, though, and Arthur was thankful for that. He had no idea where his life was going.

For the time being, he concentrated on helping Alice as best as he could, running errands and doing chores starting early hours of morning and deep into the night.

He wasn’t complaining -- keeping busy was doubtlessly better than wallowing in self-pity or waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares.

Arthur had been having nightmares since the second night he spent in the hotel. Usually, it involved his father coming into the hotel with a straightjacket in his hand, and when Arthur turned to run, he couldn’t move. He would look down and see his legs knee deep in the soil, sucking him in deeper with every movement. Arthur would try to struggle, fight himself out of the ground, but would realise he was locked in the straightjacket already, and just as he was about to sink under the surface, the earthy smell filling his nostrils, Arthur saw a stone. Right in front of him, there would be a gravestone with him mother’s name carved into it, and it would be the last thing Arthur looked at before the darkness swallowed him and he would wake up, shaking with cold sweat, the heavy scent of dirt clouding his confused senses.

The plot of the nightmares slightly changed from time to time, but the part with the gravestone was always the same. After two months, Arthur stared at his haunted expression in the mirror and for the first time began to seriously consider going someplace else, where he could be certain to stay hidden from his father.

Of course, both Alice and Arthur realised that sooner or later, Uther would find them.

First of all, Arthur’s departure definitely had been recorded by CCTV on the train station in Sheffield. It was just a matter of time before Uther would get the footage, learn where the train Arthur boarded on was going, get to Bristol and have his loyal group of men digging around in search for Arthur. And when they’d have failed, Uther would order to widen the search, using his money and connections to scoop every inch of nearby area until someone somewhere recognizes Arthur and would point a finger in the direction of Alice’s hotel.

It was only a matter of time.

And despite Alice’s unwavering “I won’t let him take you away that easy, dear”, Arthur knew he had to leave as soon as possible. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Alice’s words -- the woman could be frighteningly rebellious -- it’s that he didn’t want to be more of a bother than he already was. And he didn’t want to involve loving, gentle Alice into his family drama.

He had become to be known in Kingswood as Claude Kingston, the name chosen randomly by Arthur the day Alice had asked him to fill out the forms for his fake passport. Out of all the possible names, Arthur had thought of that one.

Arthur wouldn’t dare to write a composer’s name into the form, but he couldn’t think of any other. So he settled on Debussy’s, probably due to his endless amusement of how different was Claude Debussy’s temper to his music.

Listening to the mellow tune flow freely, peacefully calming to the senses, it was impossible to imagine the touchy nasty person the composer had actually been. Arthur used to chuckle to himself, imagining Monsieur Debussy gently pressing the keys of his grand piano, inventing intricate patterns only to start bitching in annoyance if someone were to shut a door a bit too loudly. But he also had been an admirably independent person, never caring about what anyone had thought of him, choosing his own path to walk.

As the time passed, Arthur got used to people calling him “Claude”, only sometimes, he still had the initial urge to say “Arthur” in reply to a casual, “What’s your name?” He felt like no one really knew him unless they knew his real name. That added to the perpetual loneliness Arthur had begun to notice creeping into his soul.

He put his real birthday in the papers, 24th of July, and Alice organized a little surprise party for him that summer. And it was a genuine surprise for Arthur since he hadn’t thought she’d even remember. He had turned sixteen and Alice presented him with a gorgeous old piano she had bought from the antique shop.

Arthur was absolutely gobsmacked, not knowing how to express the overwhelming feeling of gratitude. So he did it the only way he knew how, sitting down and playing all the beautiful music he could remember, stumbling through the pieces out of habit.

Gradually, he learnt all the sheet music he had brought with himself, polishing the technique restlessly. Alice bought him some new music when he had been repeating his modest repertoire over and over.

He began to spend more of his day time playing the piano for the residents of the hotel than performing mundane domestic tasks. He got more generous tips for his play, too.

However, Arthur was slowly starting to feel like he was a parasite. He didn’t really do anything of practical use, only taking up space in the hotel and endangering Alice’s life by simply existing in close proximity. If Uther found them, Alice’s hotel would be done for and Arthur didn’t want her to lose the business she’d been building her entire life. He didn’t say anything out loud, but he began feeling desperate and trapped in the remote little hotel. Arthur longed to get away as soon as possible.

So in August he had a talk with Alice, announcing his intention to take GCSE’s in June of the next year.

“I don’t want to feel like Father is controlling my life even if he’s not here. I don’t want his shadow to stop me from living,” he reasoned. “If I do that, it will be giving in. It will be more like dying, actually.”

Alice looked at him with tears in her eyes that Arthur didn’t understand. In a week after the talk, she had found a GCSE tutor for him, arranging for the classes to begin in September.

 

Arthur insisted on paying for the tutoring himself, as he was determined to do for the exams as well, adamant in his choice. Alice tried to argue with him a couple of times, but he politely refused when she offered to pay for his education.

He had already been living under her roof for free, given food and a job, what more could he have asked for? Alice only shook her head, saying that it was what family was supposed to do, help each other. She insisted he didn’t owe her anything, she was just “being human, Arthur, this is not even a question of kindness or generosity.”

However, Arthur begged to differ. He couldn’t fully understand why Alice had continuously been so sympathetic towards him. After endless hours of thinking, he concluded Alice must be an exceptional person, her bottomless heart filled with caring grace. Arthur couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was selfishly taking advantage of Alice’s goodness. He had to leave.

After taking his GCSE’s, Arthur had a valid reason for that.

He obviously had to take the exams under his real name, so Arthur travelled to Bristol’s Staple Hill’s Examination Centre. He did all the tests in the course of three days, getting his packed bags from the hotel immediately upon returning after his final exam.

Alice called a taxi to get them to a train station in Bristol. She stubbornly refused to simply walk Arthur to the bus stop and let him get on the train alone. Alice insisted on coming with him to Bristol and seeing him get on the train safely.

Arthur decided to get as far away from Kingswood as possible. He had looked at the map and chosen Penzance, a seaside town at the other end of the country. Arthur knew about the accent difference, but it had never been an issue of communication in Kingswood, where his posh upper-class English pronunciation of words was so contrasting to the common Yorkshire one.

Arthur supposed he could find a job in Penzance. He was going to be seventeen in a month, and there was always use for a strong skilful pair of hands. Alice was reluctant to let him go, her face forming a constant expression of worry, but they both knew there wasn’t much of a choice.

They stood on the platform, Arthur with his suitcase and Alice clutching a handkerchief in her restless hands. The sunny June weather made the air warm and clear, so unusual for gloomy Bristol skies.

Alice gathered Arthur into a tight hug, letting go of his bag in favour of squeezing her shoulders and blinking back the tears.

“Thank you for everything,” Arthur whispered, bitterly regretting he had to leave. It would have been so much easier to just stay in Alice’s hotel until he was twenty-one, playing the piano and working as staff. Perhaps, he would even get a promotion and with time, could finally feel like he belonged.

But it was impossible, he knew it was, and the certainty of it was what hurt him the most. It was as if fate was laughing at him, dangling the desired fruit in front of his face but never allowing him to have it.

He realised he was crying only when he felt Alice softly rubbing his back, whispering soothing words in his ear. After a while, Arthur’s muffled sobs subsided, and he stepped back, squeezing Alice’s hand.

“Arthur,” she called gently. Arthur raised his eyes and met her glistening ones. There was so much strange affection in them, Arthur was afraid he might break into tears again if he didn’t walk away right now.

“I...should go,” he managed, grabbing his suitcase and nodding at the waiting train.

“Yes, yes. Goodbye, Arthur, dear. Stay safe, and may the angels be with you,” Alice kissed his temple and let go of his shaking shoulder.

Arthur looked at her one last time. Her eyes were dangerously filled with tears, and Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to leave her if she cried. So he smiled weakly in goodbye, hurriedly turning away and stepping onto the train, too distraught to care about strangers seeing silent tears streaming down his cheeks as he walked to take a seat. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

  
Merlin was equally excited and anxious about the prospect of going away from his home in Newry, Northern Ireland, to the Plymouth College of Art, Devon, England. He had never gone anywhere so far from his hometown before.

He was also worried about meeting his soon-to-be classmates. What if his art wasn’t even half as good as the other students presented?..

Sure, he had managed to get a scholarship to PCA -- being a “remarkably talented and very promising young artist”, as the local paper had put it in their article about him, when his getting into PCA became the pleasantly shocking news -- but was he really good enough?

But his future classmates knew so much more about art techniques and art in general than he ever would, what with them having probably attended kinds of various art schools and lectures, whilst Merlin had only taken Art and Design Young Enterprise as an extracurricular in his otherwise not very artsy Newry High School.

And although Merlin knew plenty interesting, _fun_ facts about painters, that was probably not the most valuable characteristics of a college student.

For the major part of his life, Merlin had desperately tried to fit in. With that agenda in mind, he had tried all the different roles. But in the end of the day, he was so noticeably different from his peers that after a while, Merlin stopped trying to impress the bigoted douchebags in his class, instead losing himself in the world of the beloved art.

Like Monet, he dribbled caricatures of his teachers instead of paying attention in class (especially in Maths class), which only earned him a trip to the headmaster’s office and no income like that of Monet’s.

He had tried subtle drawings of naked figures on the edges of his notebook pages, going for the monks’ prank. His giggling stopped when one of his classmates saw it when he borrowed Merlin’s notes on the lectures, and since then Merlin’s life had been like the mouse thrown into the snake's pit. The thing was, the naked figure was a man, and Catholic-raised children were not too kind to “the gay kid”.

But now, now Merlin was going away, and he dared to dream that life in England would be somewhat different.

Obviously, he realised he would continue to be an odd duck, but he hoped to find so many others like himself. It was an art college, for Christ’s sakes, there ought to be someone Merlin could bond with. Or at least that’s what he’d been telling himself in a desperate attempt to tone down his worry.

Now, he only had to wait the two hours and two minutes of the train ride and then approximately two hours before he got on campus. Merlin had specifically calculated the time it would take to get to his new place of residence. However, instead of calming him down, it only made him more jittery. He should _not_ get himself worked up before then, or he’d embarrass himself with his nervous rambling before his new roommate. And, consequently, everyone within the radius of earshot.

Looking for something to do, Merlin started looking at the passengers. It wasn’t too crowded, despite it being seven o’clock on a busy day.

After an overall look, Merlin concentrated his attention on the boy sitting opposite of him.

His face was turned to the window, and the last rays of sunlight illuminated his features. Merlin immediately thought of Monet, whose paintings were filled with happiness and the nature of life. Monet believed everything became more fascinating when the sun fell on it. Merlin would passionately agree with him right then.

As he traced the stranger’s posture with his eyes, Merlin’s fingers itched to pick up the brush. He suddenly thought of the green pastels in his bag.

He would paint the boy like the sea: the lucent, azure of his eyes with generous splashes of deep blue, like the sadness behind them. The golden trail of the sunlight on the surface like the shiny locks of the boy. The hard outline of his jaw like the rocks on the seaside in Ireland. The gentle drumming of his fingers against the windowsill as the whisper of the waves when they crash softly, prompted by the icy wind, against the auburn earth.

Merlin inhaled deeply and could almost sense the crisp scent. He wondered minutely, if he were to lick the stranger’s skin, would it be salty to taste?

He absent-mindedly licked his lips and, noticing that the stranger’s eyes tracing the movement, Merlin realised he’d been caught staring.

He felt his cheeks blush a rich crimson, and he shook his head in embarrassment, shyly smiling and muttering, “Oh, dear old Claude.”

At once, the boy in front of him jerked and directed his luminescent eyes at Merlin, sharp and demanding.

“What?”

“Oh?” Merlin raised his head and felt his ears join his face in the sudden ode to vermillion.

The stranger’s posture, if anything, became even stiffer than before. Merlin briefly thought, he probably thinks I’m gone in the head, and rushed to clear up the situation.

“Sorry, I was just thinking how Monet would have loved to paint your portrait, I mean if you were a woman, because he mostly painted women, but you look so lovely in the sunlight, he’d probably make an exception, besides, he loved nature, and you look just like the sea, although there’s nothing green about you, I mean I have this green crayon and I’d thought it would be a precise colour to sketch you in...”

Merlin tried to shut up, he really did, but the situation was so awkward, and he was a lousy liar anyway, so he just went ahead and told the truth, which wasn’t much help in regard to persuading the picturesque stranger that Merlin was absolutely _not_ insane.

Although, Van Gogh was considered to be insane in his community, and he turned out to be one of the greatest painters in human history, so it’s not as if Merlin really minded people thinking he was insane. Maybe, it was a sign of how truly promising he was.

Coming back to reality, Merlin found his train companion outright staring at him, but his gaze no longer piercing, more like wondering.

“I look... _lovely_ in the sunlight?” The man inquired, raising a brow, the corners of his lips raised in a smirk.

Merlin just blinked at him. Twice. Then it dawned at him. “Oh! I didn’t mean it like that. I mean...” He sighed and pressed his cool palms to his flaming red cheeks.

The stranger laughed, a gentle joyful sound, and Merlin was a little less terrified of his shameful outburst, because the smile he witnessed was absolutely _astonishing_. Immediately upon seeing the boy’s white teeth, Merlin thought about the pearls on the bottom of the sea, his mind still painting the scenery. He instantly shook off this comparison -- everything had its limits.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled and then, because there was nothing really to do now, except try to get the conversation on the proper _sociable_ level, he offered his hand, his fingers now warm from pressing them to the heat of his face.

“I’m Merlin.”

The stranger looked at him for a second too long, but then gripped his palm with his own.

“Claude.”

“Oh, like Monet, exactly like Monet?” Merlin was so excited about this sudden, delightful coincidence, he squeezed the boy’s - Claude’s - hand too tightly, grinning at him.

Claude huffed and Merlin quickly released him.

“More like Debussy,” said Claude, and looked out of the window again.

Merlin hoped for something more, but Claude, apparently, was not the talking-to-strangers type, and Merlin decided to wait quietly for something to resume the conversation. They might not have said a lot to each other, but the the first stone in the rockslide of communication was thrown.

“Rock”, thought Merlin, and snorted. His mind immediately jumped to that story about Greek and Roman stone bullets, on which they had carved interesting messages, later to be translated. Messages that had included such meaningful phrases as _“Take that”_ and _“I hope this hits you in the dick”_. Merlin recalled the one that had him laughing the most. During the siege of Perusia, Italy, some year B.C., the Perusians were being systematically starved, but held up with a bravado, and the stone bullet was recovered from the ruins, a message on it loosely translated as _“I know you’re starving, dipshit”_. Merlin snorted some more.

He contemplated telling this story to Claude, but when he looked at him, Claude seemed so serious, Merlin wasn’t sure a story about starving people would cheer him up.

He started searching for some topics in his mind that Claude might find interesting, meanwhile subconsciously painting the imaginary canvas in vibrant indigo.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin must have read about the monks' prank and the Perusia story on [here](http://www.cracked.com/article_19271_8-filthy-jokes-hidden-in-ancient-works-art.html)


	7. Chapter 7

~26th June 2008

Arthur stared out of the window, mindlessly tapping out Schubert’s _Hungarian Melody in B_ _minor_ again, after the sudden and somewhat confusing dialogue with this quirky co-passenger of his.

He felt Merlin’s eyes on him, knew Merlin was probably trying to come up with subjects to talk about, but Arthur didn’t really care. He was not here to make friends. Actually, he had to have as little social contact as possible, considering every person was just more rick for both him and his unfortunate acquaintance.

In all honesty, Merlin was more than a little intriguing. Arthur had caught him looking, and when Merlin slowly licked his lips, staring openly at Arthur’s neck, he felt his own pulse quicken.

And then Merlin had to open his mouth and say Arthur’s fake name, which immediately sent panic flowing through Arthur’s body, his mind racing.

_Did he know this guy? Where? When? How? Was he one of his father’s employees? Was he someone from Alice’s hotel? Did he…_

“What?” barked Arthur, thus prompting the sorry exchange.

Doubtlessly, Arthur regretted it.

Merlin was captivating, the way he talked, the way his dimples appeared when he grinned, the way his delicate fingers articulated along with the words which were spoken with a hint of a mellifluous Irish accent.

Arthur guessed Merlin was a painter. Well, a miniature easel resting against his bag was a pretty good tell-tale on their own. Arthur thought Merlin didn’t have a lot of money since he apparently couldn’t afford a case for the easel and had to carry it around bare.

But also Merlin’s way of describing things was fascinatingly artistic. Arthur wondered what it was like in Merlin’s head.

 _Must be messy_ , he joked to himself.

The way Merlin said Arthur had looked _lovely_ made Arthur laugh despite himself, if only at the sheer ridiculousness of Merlin’s behaviour towards strangers.

Arthur tried to carefully keep his mind completely blank, but something about Monet and a sudden memory of that film about teenage girls in the 90s Morgana had made him watch got him to turn his face to look at Merlin.

Without really thinking, Arthur said, “Wait, Monet...That Monet, whose paintings look okay if you look at them from a distance, but taking a closer look reveals his careless style?”

Merlin stared at him for a couple of seconds, the meaning dawning on him. Then he gasped, the lines on his forehead forming an angry furrow.

“Careless style?!” Merlin exclaimed, his hands flying up in the air in desperation. “You did _not_ just say that!”

Arthur winced a little at the loud notes.

“Would you, please, lower your voice,” he grimaced. “I can hear you perfectly from right here, you know, half a metre away.”

Merlin gulped for air a little. He looked disturbingly like a man on a mission. Arthur silently cursed himself for ever even asking that question.

“First of all, how can you say that about a painting, any painting? Are you an art expert?” Merlin seemed so offended, apparently on behalf of Monet, that it would have been hilarious under different circumstances. Like if Merlin’s fury wasn’t directed at Arthur.

It seemed like Merlin was waiting for him to answer.

Arthur sighed. “Look, sorry, no, I’m not an expert,” he said, calm and apologetic. “In fact, I’m so far from that, the only painter I know of is Van Gogh, and that’s only because of a rude joke I read once. About Van Gogh sending his ear to Beethoven with a note, ' _You need it more._ ' Pretty offensive, if you ask me." Arthur caught himself digressing, hastily continuing his original train of throught. "I’ve just heard someone say that about Monet and it seared into my memory. I don’t know.”

Merlin was silent, his arms crossed, and -- was that a pout?

“I’m sorry. It’s a memory thing, I suppose.” He tried to make Merlin understand that he wasn’t trying to offend anyone, not Monet and certainly not Merlin. Arthur decided to draw some parallels.

“It’s like...people thinking Wagner composed _Requiem For A Dream_ and they even invented a name for it, _Der Weg In Walghal,_ though it really was created by Clint Mansell, but ask a hundred people and I guarantee you, ninety-six of them will tell you it’s from ‘The Ring of Nibelungs’ ”

“This doesn’t in any way explain why you think Monet was a slacker,” Merlin grumbled, still cross.

“Popular misconceptions,” smiled Arthur. He hoped to get back in Merlin’s good graces and seemed like it worked.

With a sigh, Merlin relaxed his arms. Although his eyes were narrowed with annoyance, at least his voice was no longer resentful when he spoke.

“Maybe, his _”careless style”_ , as you so kindly put it, had something to do with his _genius_. He was the first impressionist, he actually changed the negative connotations of the word to positive ones, a whole _era_ started because of him.” Merlin huffed, and briefly looked out of the window, and then back at Arthur.

“Or maybe, _Claude_ , it had something to do with him going _blind_. He was a painter, you see, and he was going _blind_. He had to paint from his memory for _years_ , and his illness caused his vision to blur, turning patterns of colour and light into unfocused yellow-green inkblots. You try painting when you only see two colours and dots.”

Merlin pouted some more, but Arthur could already see Merlin’s attitude gradually returning to the talkative and outgoing one from before.

“Beethoven composed most of his famous pieces almost completely deaf,” Arthur went for the middle ground.

“Well, I’m not saying anything nasty about your Beethoven, am I?” Merlin turned to look out of the window some more.

After a minute of silence, he grudgingly uttered, “Did you say your name was Claude just because I mentioned Monet, then?”

Arthur was already deep in his thoughts so took a second to fully comprehend what Merlin was referring to.

“What? No! It’s my name,” _from now on_ , Arthur added internally. “Besides, if I were to connect my name to a famous person, I’d have gone with Debussy.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” Merlin was still not looking at him but at least he wasn’t frowning anymore, his eyes wide and curious again.

Arthur felt strangely guilt-ridden. He couldn’t really understand why. If a random bloke on a train got his knickers in a twist when someone wasn’t nerdy enough about art, it wasn’t exactly Arthur’s problem, now was it?

Regardless, he continued racking his brain to say something that might just serve as an apology for his earlier misguided judgement.

“Debussy was an impressionist in music, by the way.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Merlin, slightly jumping from his seat in victory. And although Arthur’s pride was a little hurt, he smiled in response to Merlin’s wide, brilliant grin.

They fell back into the blessed silence.

Until Merlin asked him why he was going to Plymouth.

Arthur shrugged in reply, but Merlin must have taken it took it both for the answer and a polite question back because he started babbling about going to an art college. Arthur smirked, feeling a bit smug about his previous correct guess.

Merlin went on and on about his various expectations of student life. He’d asked Arthur a couple of questions, too.

 _Was Arthur was going to college as well?_   “No.” _Did he pass his GCSEs?_   “Yes.” _Was he already out of college?_   “No.”

After some more attempts to keep the conversation going, Merlin went quiet, probably assuming Arthur wasn’t interested in talking with him.

It’s not that Arthur wasn’t interested. He did want to know more about Merlin, about his art and his scholarship story. Maybe Arthur could even entertain him with stories about composers and see if Merlin has some juicy gossip about genius people from the art sphere.

He wanted to crack classical music jokes that Merlin wouldn't understand so Arthur would have to explain, and Merlin would totally laugh because he was odd and open and friendly like that.

Perhaps they could even swap numbers at the end of the journey and Arthur wouldn’t have to be so alone.

Except that Arthur didn’t have a phone because he wasn’t a normal boy, he was a fugitive with a possibly insane tyrant of a father who had been chasing Arthur for some time now.

Obviously, the only way Arthur could know for certain if he was still under threat was if he stopped running to see what happened. He wasn’t about to take that risk. He knew his father too well. If someone crossed Uther, he would make an example out of them so nobody else dares to disobey. Arthur supposed his father was after him just out of spite now, not with a lunatic idea to “cure” Arthur of being gay but to simply lock him in. Till the end of his days, too.

Arthur let out of heavy sigh. The upcoming years promised to be a mess of surviving until some more distant future. Arthur felt just the tiniest bit frightened and a little lost, trying to concentrate on planning out his go about in Penzance because if he thought about the whole situation, he just might burst into tears or throw up or both.

He was terrified and he felt like someone just dropped him into the open ocean.

Arthur didn’t want to drag anyone into this whole mess, especially not Merlin with his lively imagination and honesty and a defined purpose in his future.

Besides, the more people he knew, the more it was possible for his father to find him. It was common knowledge after all, that the further you opened your arms, going for a hug, the easier it was to rip you apart.

Arthur could see Merlin stealing glances but he stubbornly feigned indifference, following the intricate pattern of Schubert’s piece with his fingertips against the rough surface of the windowsill.

The train has been speeding for about one and a half hours now. The sun has set and it was pitch black outside now.

The lights in the coach were on, so Arthur could only see his own reflection in the window. For a mindless moment, he tried to find in his features the sea Merlin had been talking about but then shook himself and looked at his watch.

It was almost 9:30 p.m. They were going to arrive in Plymouth in about fifteen minutes, and then Arthur had a bit more than half an hour till his train to Penzance.

Arthur had decided to go there because it was as far from Sheffield and his father, as well as Kingswood and Alice as he could get. Additionally, he supposed it was far easier to find a job in that small town since Penzance was a famous tourist spot so likely there was always a need for workers. The fact that foreigners went and go provided Arthur with the necessary feeling of safety about meeting people, each one of whom could easily be just the pair of eyes Uther’d need to find Arthur.

He was going to vanish, at least until he was twenty-one. Those upcoming years seemed like eternity to Arthur. He had no idea what he was going to do in Penzance, none at all. He guessed he’d just have to figure it out.

The train slowed to a stop, and when Arthur looked up, Merlin was already out of his seat and in the aisle, his numerous bags and packages blocking the way entirely. However, Merlin swiftly organized his luggage in a way that looked a little like magic, because all those things he carried with him managed to click like lego pieces, and Merlin was able to actually move along the narrow space without getting stuck.

As he walked a couple of steps towards the exit and levelled with Arthur’s seat, Merlin smiled at him and fumblingly pushed a piece of paper into Arthur’s lap.

“This is something you would probably want to substitute those indignant facts in your head about Monet with,” he mumbled, and briefly touched Arthur’s shoulder, “Goodbye, Claude.”

“Goodbye, Merlin.” replied Arthur, belatedly realizing that he forgot to ask if Merlin’s name was even real, but _of course_ it was real, because of course Merlin would have a ridiculously rare and great name to match his personality.

When Arthur got onto the train to Penzance at 12:40, he found a seat in an empty coach, waited till the vehicle moved, and got out Merlin’s paper which he’d carefully tucked away into his pocket.

Arthur briefly smiled when he realized what he expected to be messy scribbles turned out to be pretty decent, somewhat curly handwriting. The note was written in what looked like a green crayon of some sort and read,

_“Correct (and more fun!) Facts About Monet:_   
_• He was a rebel and most of his time spent drawing ridiculous pictures of his teachers!_   
_• His father wanted him to take over running the family shop but Monet was intent on becoming an artist. In 1857, Monet’s mother died and at sixteen years old Monet dropped out of school and went to live with his spinster aunt._   
_• According to this man who had studied Monet, Monet couldn’t judge what he had been seeing or see what he had been painting. He said it was a mystery how he had worked at all._   
_• Monet designed his own garden!_   
_• He destroyed many of the canvases that he’d painted during the time he was practically blind (maybe he thought they were bad?)_   
_• He once said to an interviewer that during his “blind period” he had been solely trusting the labels on the tubes of paint and his own force of habit._   
_• He was more interested in how something looked when the sunlight was on it. (You look ~~lovely~~ glorious in the sunlight! This is an objective opinion of an artist :P )_   
_• He attempted suicide by throwing himself into the Seine shortly after his son was born because his financial burdens were getting too much for him. His father had disowned him after he had gotten Camille (who’d later become his wife) pregnant and he hadn’t been selling many paintings. With help from his friends and his wife, Monet managed to get back on his feet and put it all behind him._   
_• Obviously, Claude Monet had extraordinary talent, but he was also a regular guy who wanted to live a happy life. The one thing that made him a success is that Monet persevered and never gave up.”_

And at the very bottom of the sheet, Arthur noticed another piece of text. It was a quote.

 _‘Continuous effort –_  
 _not strength or intelligence -_  
 _is the key to unlocking our potential.’_  
  _Winston S. Churchill_ _:)"_

__

Arthur’s lips quirked involuntarily at the smiley face and he went through the whole list again, reading the last quote over and over.

He didn’t know if Merlin was some kind of psychic or if this was a mere coincidence, but Arthur hadn’t even realised how much he had needed these words until he read them.

 _Thank you, Merlin_ , he thought, relaxing into his seat, and decided that perhaps, yes, he had some chance of surviving this successfully after all.

 


	8. Penzance

When Arthur arrived in Penzance and exited the train, he just stood on the platform for a while, watching people meeting their friend and relatives, going home, going _somewhere_ , moving with a _purpose_.

Arthur didn’t really know what to do. All he knew was that he had to last four years and two months until his twenty-first birthday, and then he wouldn't have to live with his drowning fear anymore.

He sighed, picked up his bags and went to get settled into a motel.

~

At first, Arthur couldn’t find any job, what with him being an inexperienced teenager. He had almost exhausted his “spending fund”, a part of the whole sum he had, when he finally got a job of a fish filleter.

It wasn’t so bad, working with fishermen and having at least some income, and although Arthur’s hands became rough he didn’t have a piano to play anyway.

His life settled into a routine. A local hostel let him rent a room for a monthly pay instead of a daily one, given his work as a local. More often than not, he had free fish and chips at the café next to the beach and on free days, he liked going around town, exploring narrow streets and ogling the Cornish words written on numerous signs, trying to memorize the spelling.

Despite working with other people, Arthur didn’t make many acquaintances. Frankly, he was thankful for the lonesome nature of his job. All he had to do was silently take the fish from the fishermen, do his job, stock the fillets into a box, and pass it onto next level.

He did all the filleting with a very sharp, dangerous knife, so he had to be exceptionally careful and not get distracted by communicating with people, which was another reason why he hadn’t talked to anyone in weeks.

Sometimes Arthur would take a break from his work, late in the evenings, when the sun was just beginning to set and look at the sea, sitting on one of the fishing boats.

He would listen to the waves, hear the powerful notes of Shostakovich’s Fifth, and feel his loneliness and desperation weighing down on him, crushing his shoulders. Nowadays, he wasn’t even sure he _had_ a future. How was he going to return to his old life? What was he going to do? And was there even an “old life” to return to?

It all used to be so simple. Arthur had had his future all planned out for him. School, college, university. Maybe he would have become a professional musician. Maybe he’d follow in his father’s footsteps. Either way, he used to be standing on the ground with both of his feet, used to have a roof above his head, money in the bank and a strict timetable to stick to.

Now, he didn’t have anything. No, worse -- he had _nothing_. He had no one to turn to, no one to _talk_ to, and it was the purest torture. Nobody cared what his story was, and he had never before felt so lost, so lonely, so _out of control_. He didn’t know what was going to happen, couldn’t exactly decide what to do. He needed to survive and for that, he needed to be _this_ \- a faceless, silent boy who was never late and did his job perfectly.

But as time passed, Arthur was feeling more and more restless. It wasn’t in him to be obedient, to give in to the circumstances.

And when he accidentally cut his palm with a careless move and was sent for a break, Arthur sat on the deck and suddenly remembered Merlin. Blabbing, grinning Merlin, who talked to Arthur even though Arthur wouldn’t talk back.

He remembered the piece of paper Merlin had given him that was now pinned to the wall near his bed, and every time Arthur opened his eyes in the morning, every time he thought he couldn’t find the willpower to get up, he would glance at the hurriedly scribbled lines and push himself up. Because Monet had done it, and Beethoven had done it, and Schubert had done it, so Arthur could do that, too.

Pressing on the wound through the gauze to stop the bleeding, Arthur looked at the waves, and for the first time, omnios Shostakovich’s _Allegro_ from _Symphony No.5_ started to go quiet in his mind, instead giving way to the soft and playful notes of Chopin.

Arthur looked at the sea and smiled a little. If Merlin wanted to paint Arthur like the sea, then Arthur would recreate him in music. Every time he played an E chord from now on, it would be Merlin: minor for Merlin's blue eyes and major for the dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he grinned.

~ September 2009

Arthur left Penzance carrying a smaller bag than the one he had gotten there with and a promising dream of finding a better life in Plymouth.

A better life and, possibly, Merlin.

As he departed from the train station in Penzance, the ridiculously early hour of morning granting him a blessed privacy in the cold, dimly-lit coach, Arthur couldn’t help but be grateful for getting fired. They explained it as “the end of season calling for letting additional staff go”, but Arthur had known better. He’d been working for those people for a year and two months by then, and he’d suspected it was his indifferent and, later, snappy attitude that made his employers oust him.

Arthur wasn’t really upset because of it. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to run and hide somewhere discreet, and just wait those years until his twenty-first birthday out. However, the mocking truth was that Arthur just wasn’t the patient type of person. He needed to _live_ , however risky it was to surface. He couldn’t just keep _existing_. He was craving for socializing, talking to people, having friends, for god’s sake. He wanted to break the shell of hiding, and he was honestly fed up with running. At that point, he’d fight and claw his way out of his father’s plan to lock him up. He’d destroy everything there was left of the family connection. Arthur didn’t care anymore. He just needed some warmth and presence of something, _someone_ in his life again.

He was so far from Morgana and Gaius and his past right now, it seemed too surreal to have ever happened.

As he watched the scenery outside the window, rushing past fields and forests and occasional houses, the gloomy autumn sky gradually lightening up into the chilly dawn of a warm sunny September day, he drummed his fingers to the rhythm of Liszt’s _La Campanella_. The first rays of sunlight, illuminating the frozen ground, reminded him of Merlin’s words. Arthur took out the crumpled note Merlin had given him fourteen months ago, the note that’d been taped to the wall in his crappy hostel room for his whole stay in Penzance, re-read it for the billionth time and the hope that spread out inside him numbed the last doubt he had about moving to Plymouth.

He would find a job there, rent a place and, afterwards, he’d go on a search for Merlin. Arthur was sure he’d find the boy in no time -- after all, Merlin was like a silvery shining needle in the mundane stack of hay. 

 


	9. Plymouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Starting this chapter, the story goes explicit. Please be mindful of all the warnings I have put into the A/N and in the tags.

Reality, though, proved that Merlin was more like a needle in a sea of needles.

On a top of Arthur not being able to find a steady job in the city, which meant not having a prominent roof over his head, he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out where to start his search.

He couldn’t quite go to the Plymouth College of Art asking after a guy named Merlin, now could he? Even though it was a rare name, Arthur was still anxious about talking to people who worked in the system. He was paranoid of them somehow recognizing him and reporting to his father or the local authorities as "the missing kid".

After two months of occasional jobs as a dish washer for five pounds an hour _at best_ , taking any opportunity to stay at a warm and dry place for at least two nights in a row and eating only when absolutely necessary, Arthur’s spirits began to gradually slide down. He managed to get a couple of opportunities to play piano at art cafés, improvising to provide a background, but his fingers had become too rough and he slipped too often, confusing the keys and blanking out from the lack of sleep and nourishment.

To add to that, he began looking quite like a homeless person, numerous mismatching layers of worn out fabric keeping him from the biting cold of December, and he started getting only abrupt refusals in response to his door-to-door asking about available jobs.

Although he half-heartedly continued looking for Merlin, Arthur almost gave up the fantasy of ever running into him on the street or meeting at a bar.

So when on one particularly freezing December evening he found himself at another nameless pub, he didn’t really expect any company at all, only hoping no one would throw him out in the street, where the blizzard raved absolutely violent crescendos.

“You’re alone here?”

Arthur looked up from his barely lukewarm cup of coffee he’d been nursing for almost four hours now and saw a man sitting next to him on a barstool, his posture relaxed and a little arrogant.

“Yes, I am.” Arthur replied, lowering his eyes again to stare into his drink. It wasn’t polite to ignore a question, he reasoned. But he also might have already guessed what type of man would strike up a conversation with him. So it wasn’t really a surprise when the next thing he heard was, “How much?”

~  
That’s how it’s started.

Arthur didn’t really care about what he was doing with his body. There was no place for it when he was homeless and hungry and it was bloody winter outside, but he tried to keep the number of “clients” as small as possible.

Not caring, however, didn’t prevent him from feeling increasingly dirtier as another horny stranger would put his sweaty palm on Arthur’s fingers suggestively.

But it was either getting himself to overcome the urge to shake off the filthy touches,  willing his lips to stretch in a polite smile in response instead, or dying of cold or starvation -- whatever got him first -- on the snowy streets.

Arthur didn’t take money. Rather, he made deals: a stay overnight and food in exchange for an excessive amount of blowjobs and cleaning.

Arthur had a strict rule, “no penetrative sex”.

Once a “client” tried to take advantage of him. The bastard was twice Arthur’s size and four times stronger, what with Arthur’s state and malnutrition. However, when Arthur quickly took out the blessedly sharp fillet knife he had nicked back when he was a fish filleter, the stupid bugger held up his hands as if he was completely innocent, called Arthur a ‘nut poofter’ and threatened to call the police.

Arthur quickly ran out of the flat, hurting his ankle on the stairs because he didn’t bother waiting for the lift.

He never made the move first. He never asked if someone “wanted to have fun”. Arthur had always simply answered the proposal, bargaining and striking deals. Like the businessman his father had wanted him to become. Arthur suspected his father would have been _proud_ of the proprietor Arthur became.

Sadly, this was the only way he could survive the bitter winter and not much better spring months.

~ June 2010

When June came around, Arthur could say he had become a different person.

He was going to turn nineteen in July which meant he had to survive two more long, hard years with only a distant and at this point, probably imagined light at the far end of a pitch-black tunnel. _And then what?_

It seemed impossible to go back to his old life now, or any life at all for that matter.

Arthur couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment when he had lost all of his hope. He was so, _so_ tired, and he didn’t really have it in him to struggle anymore.

He didn’t really see the point of fighting.

His father hated him, Morgana and Gaius would never take him back if they learned what he had become, what he’d done. They would probably despise Arthur every ounce as much as he despised himself.

Arthur longed for some comfort. For a single genuine smile, but when he saw his reflection in another stranger’s bathroom mirror, he chuckled humourlessly. Dishevelled, hair a mess, the corners of his mouth cracked, lips chapped and skin broken in places. Nothing more than a cheap whore. Deadly pale face and huge watery blue eyes with blunt desperation in them -- who would honestly smile at _that_?

Arthur went to the first pub he came across, praying it wouldn’t have some sort of a fuckwit security guard who would tell him to flash his ID or get out. Arthur still tried to keep a low profile even on his fake name.

He entered the pub without any questions being asked, mainly because there seemed to be some sort of celebration going on in there and people had been flowing in and out for a smoke or a drunken “talk about feelings”.

The room inside was so full of people, Arthur actually had to shoulder his way to the bar, ordering a gin and tonic with the little money his last customer insistently had pressed into Arthur's hand. _'You should eat something tonight, too,'_ the bloke had said. But Arthur felt like he deserved a drink more.

As he sipped his gin tonic, he took a look around. Apparently, some students had been celebrating the end of the school year, their clothes and general appearance screaming of first, or maybe second year at a further education facility. Arthur couldn’t very well tell, because he himself had never gotten the opportunity to be a part of that crowd. The feeling stung a bit, so he took a large gulp of the burning liquid, trying to ground himself.

Out of nowhere, a pair of tipsy blokes knocked sideways into him making his hand quiver, which resulted in spilled drinks and Arthur choking on the cheap alcohol and coughing his lungs out.

“Fuck, are you bloody blind?” He grabbed a tissue and started drying his only shirt, cursing the clumsy bastards.

“Sorry, mate, no harm meant!” One of the idiots screamed in his ear, grinning like the loon he probably was. “We’re just celebrating this bloody genius passing his first course finals with straight A’s and a getting into a fancy uni in bloody London! Only first year, mate, can you believe it?”

The dark-haired wanker ruffled the hair of his companion, giving him a loud smack on the top of the head, and the “bloody genius” laughed, yelling “Gwaine, for fuck’s sake, I _told_ you not to brag about it just yet,” but there was no heat to it.

Arthur momentarily froze, because he’s recognized that voice. Of course he would, he’d spent so many sleeping and waking hours recalling it, was always on alert for the sound of it everywhere he went.

“Merlin?” Arthur straightened his back, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face, desperately hoping this was not just a trick of his foggy mind.

The dark-haired gwaffing git finally pissed off to bear hug somebody he saw in the crowd, and Arthur immediately reached for -- he could see him clear now -- Merlin.

“Merlin,” he repeated.

Merlin looked at him, grinning, but as he took Arthur in, his eyes grew more and more confused, until Arthur could almost taste the “do I know you?” line in the air.

However, after a couple more seconds, Merlin’s grin returned and with a loud and slightly slurry, “Claude!”, he threw himself onto him, enveloping Arthur into a tight and warm hug.

It was so unexpected, Arthur didn’t even return the gesture, letting his limbs fall along his sides but after a moment, he closed his eyes, breathing in Merlin’s smell and felt a little like home.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin yelled in his ear, and Arthur winced. He didn’t like loud sounds.

“Could we perhaps go somewhere quiet?” he shouted back, out of necessity.

He saw the quick calculating look pass in Merlin’s eyes, and then Merlin smiled softly, took Arthur by the hand and led him somewhere to the back of the room.

“Merlin?” Arthur called, unsure, as they went through the door with a “Staff only” sign on it.

“Trust me,” Merlin turned his head, mischievous smile playing on his lips.

~  
"Is here quiet enough for you, Claude?"

Merlin was obviously drunk, leaning on the wall of what seemed to be a private loo. Arthur locked the door out of habit and turned to take a good look at his finally found companion.

Merlin was as beautiful as he remembered, everything about him as graceful as the gentle notes of _La Campanella_ and just as lively, lithe, passionate. Long limbs, slender body, his delicate fingers wound around a pint of beer and gentle eyelashes making his face look vulnerable and open, just like that time in the train.

What was different, though, was the devilish look in his eyes, betraying the innocent demeanour.

"Hey," Arthur said, still staring at him, not sure what he was supposed to do. When he imagined their meeting, it was always him being in control, smirking slightly as he joked about life and music, charming Merlin with his wit. He’d always fantasized about how they would talk, how he’d make Merlin blush and giggle until he was absolutely smitten with Arthur, and then they would probably exchange numbers or go somewhere right away, depending on how shy Merlin actually was.

 _This_ Merlin was not shy at all. He took a long swing of his drink, put the the pint on the surface near the sink, and placed his hands on his own legs, slightly moving his palms in circles. He stood, looking at Arthur through his voluptuous eyelashes, head thrown back a little, baring his long pale neck.

Arthur unconsciously licked his lips.

"You know," Merlin began lazily after a moment of silence, "I’ve fantasized about you quite a lot." He began moving his hands coyly, occasionally grazing the fly of his jeans, stroking his thighs lovingly.

Arthur felt his breath quicken and the sensation of wet shirt against his heated skin made him shiver.

Merlin was still silent, just _looking_ at him, obviously waiting for Arthur’s move. And this was so different from what Arthur had imagined. But in this case, "different" sort of meant _better_.

He crossed the distance slowly, coming to a halt in a couple of inches from Merlin’s arched body. Arthur reached for the pint on the sink, took a swig because his mouth had suddenly gone dry and noticed something on the mirror.

He turned his head a little to get a better look and saw _'we believe that there is future in the fucking, but there is no fucking future’_ scribbled on the surface in black permanent pen. Apparently, not only Merlin knew how to get into the staff toilet for a shag.

Arthur smirked, putting down the beer and glanced at Merlin.

"So, do _you_ believe the future is in the fucking?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive. Merlin briefly eyed the words on the glass and laughed.

"It depends," he murmured, the tone matching Arthur’s.

Without a second thought, Arthur dropped to his knees and Merlin’s hands quickly travelled from his thighs into Arthur’s blond strands.

Arthur felt light-headed, unlikely from the little amount of alcohol he’d consumed, but more from the way Merlin’s fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging a little and then stroking it with apologetic softness. He rubbed his cheek on the bulge in Merlin’s jeans, feeling the other boy gasp a little and then say, "come on, Claude, be a good boy."

The words made Arthur go hot all over, a sudden _need_ to be a _good boy good boy good boy_ clouding his mind, prompting him to crawl over to his duffel bag near the door to retrieve the ever-present condoms.

In a second, he was back kneeling in front of Merlin. He put the package between his teeth to free his hands so he could frantically unzip Merlin’s jeans, pulling them down along with his pants.

Arthur took a moment to admire Merlin’s cock. It was long, so long that Arthur probably wouldn’t be able to take it all in even with his earned absence of gag reflex. And it was _thick_.

Arthur moaned a little at the thought of stuffing it in.

He had gotten used to sucking off complete strangers, and this wasn’t his first blow-job. Far from it, in fact. He had long since forgotten the excitement of having to have his mouth fucked, after the first few times it had gotten to be a usual routine in exchange for shelter, nothing more.

But _this_ was different. This was because Arthur _wanted_ to, had wanted to for so long, if he were to be completely honest with himself.

Since their first meeting, Arthur had developed a crush on Merlin, the sort of a crush you get for a person who had been unintentionally and unnecessarily kind to you when nobody else was. He’d wanted to experience that sensation again, that he was _good enough_ for an unrelated person to care for him. That he was good enough to be loved, _just because_.

"Are you going to be just stare at it for the rest of the night?" Merlin mused, not a note of annoyance in his voice, as if he would be absolutely content with that turn of events.

Arthur looked up and smiled, taking the condom from his lips. He unwrapped it and rolled it on Merlin’s delicious cock, using his mouth salaciously while his tongue flexed and writhed.

Merlin made a noise that was something between a gasp and a moan. His hands found their way into Arthur’s hair again and he kept petting Arthur’s face all over with his fingers, stroking his forehead and his brows and his wide-stretched lips.

"Ah, Claude, you are magnificent."

Arthur snorted a little because who used words like _‘magnificent’_ while getting their cock sucked? And promptly choked, Merlin’s shaft so deep in his throat he could hardly breathe, and he still didn’t get all of it covered.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose, and then brought up one hand to work the bit he couldn’t get in.

Slowly but surely he determined a rhythm that got Merlin to breathe quick and shallow. He was moaning loudly and, at some point, started babbling a litany of filthy words, gripping Arthur’s hair hard now and tugging and pushing in time with every stroke.

"Ah, fuck, _yes_ , look at you, liking this _so much_ , I bet you’ve been fantasizing about it since the first time you saw me, oh Jesus, I bet you’ve been touching yourself while imagining my cock deep in your throat, oh _fuck_ , have you come all over your fingers, your whole hands and _licked_ them, imagining it was my come on your tongue?"

At this, Arthur’s left hand snaked to his own crotch, rubbing urgently at the insistent hard-on.

Of course, Merlin noticed it and chuckled weakly.

"Oh, you have, haven’t you?"

Arthur moaned and looked up, locking his gaze with Merlin’s, his fringe brushed out of the way by Merlin’s shaking fingers.

"Get your hand away from there," Merlin ordered. "I want to make you come myself."

Arthur’s eyes shut and it took all of his willpower to drag his left hand up to Merlin’s calf and grip it, hard.

Instead, he tried to concentrate on the way Merlin’s cock felt in his mouth, hot and rock hard and heavy, filling all the space, making Arthur’s jaw hurt unbelievably, but it was a _good_ hurt.

There weren’t any sharp objects involved, but still Arthur felt all the tension and anxiety and misery leave him, beautiful numbness and comfort taking their place.

"Ah Claude, don’t stop, don’t... _fuck_ suck harder..."

Arthur obliged and after two more seconds Merlin let out a loud wail, bordering on a scream, and Arthur felt the rubber in his mouth fill with a hot liquid. He wished they didn’t have to use a condom so he could swallow every drop of it.

Merlin released him almost instantly, leaning on the wall and seemingly being out of it.

Arthur didn’t really know what to do, so he just stayed where he was, waiting for Merlin to fulfil his promise. On a whim, Arthur leaned closer and sucked a mark into Merlin’s inner thigh, biting into the delicate skin and licking and kissing it to somehow make this _real_.

He relished in the knowledge that as long as the love bite stayed there, Merlin would think of him. Think of _this_ , how good Arthur made him feel. And possibly wanting Arthur to do it again.

 _Just wanting Arthur_.

Merlin whined a little and then touched his fingers to Arthur’s cheeks what felt like _lovingly_.

"Come here, Claude."

Arthur slowly got up, not taking his eyes off Merlin’s luminous ones.

When he stood up, he appeared to be only a breath away from Merlin’s full glistening lips. Arthur could see the pale red spots where Merlin had bitten them in ecstasy.

He never kissed.

Apart from clumsily making out with Oliver all those years ago, Arthur was a complete novice in this field. It might as well have been his first kiss, really.

But Merlin only put his mouth close to Arthur’s ear and whispered, "stand by the mirror."

As much as Arthur was confused by this order, he was also painfully hard and boundlessly desperate, so he just silently turned to face his dishevelled reflection.

Merlin leaned on him from behind, putting his hands on the both sides of the sink worktop, bracketing Arthur and consequently pressing Arthur’s erection right into the solid surface.

"Look at you, Claude," Merlin breathed. "You are _gorgeous_. I would paint you like this, so libertine and _wanton_ for me."

Arthur’s breath was erratic and for a second he feared Merlin would call him a whore or a slut, and then the whole bloody world would collapse back on Arthur’s shoulders, crushing him with its weight, but Merlin just unbuttoned Arthur’s trousers, pushing them down. He grabbed Arthur’s torso and pulled back from the sinks a little, giving him some room to tug down his briefs and pull out his straining cock.

Arthur put both his hands on the sink counter to have something to hold on to while Merlin subtly made him spread his legs wider.

Taking Arthur’s cock in his right hand, Merlin crawled the other one up the front of Arthur’s shirt, digging blunt nails into the skin of his chest. When Merlin’s fingertips grazed his nipple, Arthur gasped and pushed into the tunnel of Merlin’s fingers on his cock.

"You want to fuck my hand?" Merlin asked, biting his earlobe.

Arthur couldn’t find it in him to form any coherent words, so he just groaned and pushed forward again.

"Have you dreamed of this whilst jerking yourself off?" Merlin continued as Arthur just moved desperately through Merlin’s gradually tightening grip. "Have you imagined it being my hand? Or something else?" Merlin tweaked Arthur’s nipple and Arthur jerked, arching his back. "Have you imagined fucking me? How I’d be so tight," Merlin squeezed his hand even more, and it was aggravatingly difficult for Arthur to get some friction down his shaft now, "how you’d have to go _really_ slow in order to get in me...How you’d want to come right then but couldn’t, because you’d be so deep in me, and you’d have to wait for me to adjust, all that heat..."

Merlin stopped his hand at the base of Arthur’s cock and his fingers were so tightly wound around it Arthur realized he wouldn’t be able to come unless Merlin let him to.

"Merlin..." he managed, sweat glistening on his forehead, his fringe wet and his eyes wild with lust.

Merlin licked the shell of his ear and then his neck, and Arthur thought he was going to lose it any second now.

Luckily for him, Merlin wasn’t a complete sadist.

He fixed his eyes on Arthur’s in the mirror and murmured, "ask for it."

Well, stating he wasn’t a _complete_ sadist didn’t mean he wasn’t a sadist _at all_. Arthur was so on edge, he didn’t even think twice about it.

"Fuck, Merlin...Please, please..."

"Please, what?"

Arthur huffed and Merlin moved his hand forward and back in one fast slick motion, returning it to hold Arthur off from release immediately afterwards.

But it was enough for Arthur to get to the very brink of orgasm, and he started to make little whining noises, finally letting it all go and at last almost shouting. "Please let me come, Merlin!"

Apparently, this was enough for the insatiable bastard, because as soon as the words left Arthur’s lips, Merlin only took a moment to whisper, "you are going to come so hard for me, aren’t you, Claude?" and jerked his wrist, making a yell escape from Arthur, despite how hard he tried to keep it down.

Arthur didn’t know how much time he spent in that perfectly peaceful place of white noise, his vision gone black and all his muscles tensed in a sweet strain of delightful agony.

When he gradually regained his senses, he saw that Merlin had already dressed and stood near, sipping his beer and smiling at Arthur with that amiable expression on his face. Arthur slowly tucked himself in -- apparently, Merlin also had enough time to clean them -- and just as he was about to say something, somebody started pounding on the door.

“Oi, you sluts, you are not alone here, have some compassion!” and the following laughter brought Arthur back to reality.

This was never supposed to happen, not like it had. And if now Merlin learned all about Arthur’s real way of survival, he’d probably think Arthur a filthy whore and that what just happened between them was a part of the “job”.

Arthur couldn’t let him think that. Not Merlin.

So he quickly buckled up his jeans, muttered “Cheers” of all things, unlocked the door and hurriedly got out of the pub into the street, almost running in order to get as far away from Merlin as he could.

He would never want Merlin to know, but to Arthur it was no revelation that he was, in all honesty, a filthy whore.

Now, he couldn’t for the life of him understand what on Earth led him to believe he’d ever be anything else.

Precisely, something worthy of Merlin’s attention.

~ July 2010

If Arthur had to convert the feelings that determined his overall mood for the past month, he’d doubtlessly choose _The Swan of Tuonela, Op. 22 No. 2_ by Jean Sibelius. Much as the piece itself was charged with ever-growing tension, the tempo almost completely still, Arthur’s days were also uneventful, mundane and dark.

He gave up ‘slumber parties’ completely, warm July weather kindly letting him sleep out in the open, the chilly night breezes of May almost gone.

From time to time, Arthur would drop on his knees before a bloke to give him a quick blowjob in exchange for money. ‘Deals’ done with, Arthur still needed to eat somehow. He made sure to make the ‘earned’ money last as long as possible so he would have to repeat the process of getting it not more often than once in a week, week and a half if he was lucky enough.

Arthur wasn’t keen on finding Merlin again. In fact, he began actively avoiding all the places he would likely have met Merlin, which drove him to hide in disturbingly unsafe districts. Arthur wasn’t scared, not really.

First of all, he had his sharp knife at the ready and was keen on defending himself with everything he got. Despite his scarce eating pattern and a constant lack of proper sleep, Arthur was still able to put up a good fight.

Secondly, he mostly stayed out of other people’s business, and nobody had enough of a problem with him yet. There had been a couple of arguments over park benches and street corners, but no grudges were held. After all, being homeless was a plateful on its own.

Arthur had never imagined how it would feel to actually _be_ homeless.

Whenever he had seen a hobo on the streets before, he’d always thought something along the ‘drunk’ and ‘why don’t you get a job’ lines.

Now, however, he was more apprehensive towards people with nowhere to go, nowhere to be, like abandoned lifeboats, floating through the unpredictable sea that was life, in the hazard of being crushed by cruel waves at any given moment.

Being homeless meant a previous tragedy.

A tragedy so great, in fact, that all the anchors, no matter how strong they once have been, grounding and helping one to stay afloat, broke at once.

All the desperate attempts to repair the ropes, clawing at the cold iron wings of the metal safeguard only created a mirage of security. Every homeless person had their own mirage. Drugs, alcohol, violence -- those were the most common. Whilst Arthur sympathized almost everyone he’d met on the streets, he absolutely refused to be pitied himself, so he kept his secret mirage close.

During the day, Arthur was somewhat busy with searching for a place to sleep and finding a way to get some food.

But when the twilight came, Arthur’s hours were filled with such acute loneliness, he sometimes simply couldn’t fall asleep, and instead lay just staring at the sky, looking for at least one star. He had assured himself, as long as there was at least the tiniest star visible, there was always hope.

The worst nights were those when Arthur failed to find the slightest bit of light upon the generous stretch of the darkest blue above him. Those nights he’d look for hours on end, straining his eyes, trying to notice the weakest shining through the clouds. If he failed, he’d sigh, get up and draw his own constellations on the parchment of his skin, using his always reliable knife.

There hadn’t been any stars the previous night. Arthur was exhausted and dizzy from starvation and blood loss equally. He was sitting on a bench in a deserted park, watching the sun setting and bracing himself for another empty, pitch-black night. He tried to stay conscious by making himself notice every little detail around him.

Arthur caught the sight of a man, who was slowly passing by the bench Arthur had occupied.

The man was obviously homeless, his worn out clothes dirty and holey, and he had a bin bag in his hand. Likely, in that bag was his whole life, everything that he’d owned.

The stranger’s head was bowed so Arthur couldn’t see his face. They didn’t exchange a single look, the man silently went straight past Arthur, as if they both were mere ghosts in the waters of the dead.

Arthur stared at his back and startlingly realised that he might have looked the same. A lonely silhouette, gradually retreating into the horizon, the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders. Sometimes, he’d look back, as if feeling someone else’s presence, hoping to find an arm to hold on to.

But Arthur knew, of course he knew, that if he were to spread his hands wide and fall back, with a mocking twist of hope, there’d be no on there to catch him.

~ 01:18 am, 24th of July 2010

Three more days had passed. Three more nights there were no stars in the sky.

Arthur grew more and more desperate, until one night he couldn’t well enough get rid of the feeling of absolute failure and gloom. He tried and tried, and in his attempts, he carelessly cut too deep.

As he lay on the hard soil in an empty corner of another nameless park, clutching at his hand and staring up at the dead black sky, he distantly wondered if anyone was able to recognize his documents as fake and if Morgana and Gaius would ever know how he let them all down by being weak and worthless.

 _“I’ve ruined the kingdom myself, Morgana. I’m sorry I was such a good for nothing ruler,”_   was his last thought before the soft darkness came to take him away.

~ 25th of July

_Hello, can you hear me? Arthur? Arthur Pendragon, can you hear me?_

Arthur heard someone calling him by his full name through the fog. His first initial response was, _yes I hear you_ , but the second he parted his dry lips to croak the words, his mind suddenly reeled with _how do they know my name oh my god did Father find me eventually please no no no_ \--

“No,” he wheezed and tried to frantically move, already prepared to fight and escape whatever the cost, the apathy from before long gone to be replaced by the refusal to give in.

However, before the pain jolted through his entire body, he managed to feel the bonds on his wrists and then the panic settled fully deep in his stomach.

The person beside him chuckled. Arthur willed his eyes open and instantly felt disoriented. He appeared to be in a perfectly white room, with no windows and only one door. For a second, the bright lights reflecting off the surfaces blinded him, but gradually he began to distinguish the objects in the room.

With a quick glance around, Arthur realised it was a hospital room. He was in a hospital. Bloody hell.

“My apologies, it’s just, you said you couldn’t hear me when you clearly did,” said the person, and Arthur concentrated on them, trying to subtly determine if he was in trouble.

It was a man, rather young, and Arthur could see his badge, Doctor C.L. Hannon.

“Your name is Charles?” he asked, without fully comprehending what he was doing. The question came out as a whisper because his throat felt like someone had been pouring sand down it all night.

Dr. Hannon retrieved a glass of water from the nearby table, put it to Arthur’s lips and tilted it so Arthur was able to drink it bit by bit, until he nodded his head just so, and the doctor placed the glass back on the table.

“What?” he asked gently, the corners of his mouth slightly turned up in a polite smile.

“Your initials,” Arthur licked his lips. “Is your name Charles-Louis, by any chance?” At this, Dr Hannon softly laughed.

“No, as a matter of fact, it’s Carmichael Leax Hannon. Why are you asking?” He was looking at Arthur in a strange way.

A brisk "Probably thinks I’m completely off my meds" shot through Arthur’s mind, and he knew he had to explain in order to show he was normal. Well, as normal as he got.

“There was this famous French pianist, he composed ‘The Virtuoso Pianist in 60 Exercises’. I used to hate him so much when I was little because my teacher would always make me play _all sixty pieces_ every day for two hours.” Arthur went silent for a second, recalling the time with a small smile. “I remember deciding that every person of the same name was evil.”

Upon hearing this, Dr Hannon chortled out loud, shaking his head a little. “Well, then I’m glad my name isn’t Charles. Besides, nobody calls me Carmichael. It’s just Michael.”

“And you surname is spelled with two ‘n’s.” Arthur smiled wider. He would have forgotten the situation he was in if not for the restraining manacles that stopped him from shaking the man’s hand.

They looked down at Arthur’s bonds simultaneously and Dr Hannon’s expression grew serious.

“Now, Arthur, I need to talk to you about something.” He took the clipboard with patient sheet off the rail of Arthur’s bed and glanced through it.

Arthur tensed. So, he hadn’t imagined it. The doctor knew his real name. Arthur minutely wondered how much trouble he was in, and the comfortable atmosphere that had calmed his panic for a moment now seemed to be the perfect silence before the storm. He unconsciously moved to drum his fingers to the tune of the first movement of Beethoven’s _Sonata No.17_ , but his safety net proved to be useless when his own hand betrayed him, refusing to cooperate with his brain. He suspected he had been sedated or something. And when he tried to shift his left hand, a sharp pulsing pain made him gasp, instantly deafening every sound except that of his rapid shallow heartbeat.

Dr. Hannon hastily tossed the clipboard aside and leaned close to Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Are you okay? Arthur? Breathe. Don’t move.”

Arthur’s eyes were shut and he slowly regained a normal tempo of breathing-in-breathing-out, trying to relax once again and not let the dangerous frenzy of _why can’t I move my hand what happened why does it hurt so much fuck what have i done_ take over.

“I can’t move my hand,” he gritted out, not daring to take a look at it. “Why can’t I move my hand?”

The doctor quietly moved back. By the sound of it, he pulled up a stool and sat near Arthur’s bed.

“That is part of the subject I want to talk with you about.” His tone was serious, but not threatening or condescending.

Arthur gathered all his courage to pry his eyes open and locked his gaze on his left hand, for a millisecond frozen with terror of what he might see.

The good news was, his hand was intact. Arthur let out a huge sigh of relief and instantly felt dizzy, the aftermath of his brain going numb with mortification.

The bad news, however, presented itself in the endless layers of gauze and despite the thickness of it, dark red spots all over the pristine material. Arthur also noticed an IV tube taped to the elbow vein of his equally heavily bandaged right hand, and some more cannulas going in and out of his body, hooked to different sort of containers with liquids. One of them was blood.

“Arthur?”

Arthur turned his head to look at the doctor and decided to clarify something to get rid of the constant anxiety humming away through his secured body.

“Dr. Hannon, I must ask you how do you...How do you know my name?” Arthur knew there was no point in insisting on being “Claude”. If he had been put on such thorough treatment, it meant he had been covered by NHS.

It meant he had been discovered.

Doctor looked down, as if collecting his thoughts, then lifted his gaze to stare Arthur straight in the eyes.

“Arthur, you came into A&E in a state of unconsciousness. Someone found you in the park, bleeding out on the ground and called an ambulance. You had to have a blood transfusion due to having lost drastic amounts of blood and this procedure requires obligatory correct identification.”

He went silent for a second.

Watching Arthur’s face closely, the doctor continued, “Now, I don’t know why or how you got those documents, but if you paid a lot for them, I’m afraid that was a waste of your money. They wouldn’t withstand the scrutiny of a job application, not to mention an official test by the police or health care system.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed and looked at the ceiling. He guessed where this was going.

“We ran your fingerprints to get your true identity and NHS number. Turned out you were in a missing persons report. The hospital had to contact your father and get his confirmation. It’s all going to be fine now, Arthur, your father is coming here the day after tomorrow to arrange your transition into another hospital. Until then, however, it’s a standard procedure that you are on a seventy-two-hour suicide watch. I’m sure I don’t need to explain as to why.” Dr. Hannon stopped talking.

An apprehensive 17th Sonata in Arthur’s mind violently twisted into Rachmaninov’s _Musical piece No.4, op. 16_ , pushing its shocking fortissimo chords like impulses through his body. He belatedly realised that the thrumming noise of harrowing arpeggios was, in fact, the alarmingly violent beating of his own heart. Well, that explained the sudden heaviness of his head and his vision going darker.

Arthur felt like a thick hot veil suddenly surrounded him, and he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs.

It was terrifying. He heard an obnoxious noise piercing through the darkness. In those couple of seconds between the doctor bolting from his chair, running to the other side of the bed, and his urgent, “Arthur, you need to breathe, you need to try and relax,” Arthur realised it was his heart monitor.

He distantly wondered if he was having a heart attack.

Then, out of nowhere, he felt cold palms on his cheeks and forehead, gently caressing his heated skin.

Unexpectedly, the sensation grounded Arthur enough for the darkness to creep away to the corners of his eyes and then dissipate completely, and bit by bit, his breathing went from suffocating to shallow and then to more controlled, slowing his heart rate and making the annoying squeaky beeping subside.

He focused on the lucent green eyes of the man in front of him and said, his voice shaky and barely audible, “No, Dr. Hannon, please, you don’t understand, I can’t...”

“It’s okay, just calm down, Arthur.”

“No, it’s not okay, my father is the one I am running from, Dr. Hannon, please,” Arthur’s voice broke into a sob, and he cursed internally. He wasn’t going to sit here and cry over his unfortunate fate. But Arthur found that he had little control over his body at the moment. Angry tears streamed down his face, wetting the doctor’s hands still on his face.

“Arthur. All right, you need to tell me. It’s going to be okay, but you must tell me everything.” Pause. “And, please, call me Michael.”

~ 27th of July 2010

It had been a day since Arthur confided in Michael and told him the entire story. How his father was going to lock him up, how Arthur escaped and came to be Claude. How he lived at Penzance and moved to Plymouth in the hopes of finding a job.

Arthur left Merlin’s name out completely.

In less than twenty-four hours, his father was going to be in the hospital and taking Arthur back to Sheffield. It made all the trouble Arthur had gone through seem worthless. His struggles were in vain, all of it was.

Just as his mandatory 72-hour watch came to an end and Arthur was allowed to go to the bathroom accompanied by a nurse, Michael came rushing in.

He wasn’t wearing scrubs, so Arthur concluded he wasn’t on duty. Michael and the nurse exchanged knowing nods and the latter quietly left them alone.

“Come with me to London,” Michael blurted, sweaty and a little out of breath.

“What?” Arthur was still a little out of it from the sedatives.

“Arthur, you father is going to be here any moment. You can stay here and wait for it, or you can come with me to London right now.” Michael impatiently pointed at a suitcase he had in his hand. “You can stay with me there for awhile, until you’re properly healed.”

Arthur just stood there, gaping at him like a simpleton. There were so many questions in his head, he didn’t know which one to ask first.

“How?” he managed, not fully comprehending the situation.

“I have a job there. It was proposed that I be transferred to London weeks ago, but I was still considering it when...Well, you happened. I am your doctor, and I can discharge or transfer you the way I see fit. There are complications, but I can deal with them. We will go by car. I was promised an apartment in London for the first few weeks. Everything is completely safe.”

Michael stopped talking and looked at Arthur intensely.

Arthur knew he was waiting for his answer, but he still couldn’t quite understand.

“Why?”

Michael gave him a confused look.

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur clarified.

Michael smiled and straightened his back mockingly.

“Well, I’m a doctor, it’s my job to help people,” he winked.

Arthur huffed and said yes, of course he said yes, not quite believing his luck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Hannon might or might not have ulterior motives in helping Arthur out.


	10. London

~ London, 2011

Life with Michael was a bit like Rachmaninov’s _Musical Moment No.3_. Consistent and, defined, it would have been pleasantly calm and light, if only not for the anxious undertones of gentle melancholy, twisting the hopeful melody of higher octaves into a dark, fraught tune with the ever-present distressing pull of the forlorn bass notes.

They weren’t in any sort of relationship except close companions.

After a month in London, Michael rented a flat for them not far from the hospital he was working at.

He didn’t ask anything of Arthur except to “relax and get well”. Somehow, Michael had arranged for all the paper trail to stay buried, and Arthur had escaped his dreadful fate once again. For all intents and purposes, his name was the usual Claude Kingston. Michael chose to call him that as well to avoid any sudden slips.

Arthur’s days were rather mundane. He got up, took a shower, cleaned the apartment, went to the supermarket, cooked -- he had gotten so much better at it -- then read a book or watched endless videos of people playing piano pieces on YouTube. Arthur somewhat enjoyed criticizing the technique and fingering of the players, secretly longing to touch the keys himself.

He didn’t ask Michael to get him a keyboard, never even brought up the fact that he could play the piano. The man had done enough for him, and Arthur didn’t want to be a nuisance. After all, who knew for how long he would be allowed to stay the quiet housewife. They never did discuss the matter.

By the example of Rachmaninov, Arthur used to drum his fingers on every available surface so as to not lose his skills. When he felt particularly sad, or nostalgic, or distressed, or even when he felt absolutely nothing, Arthur would violently rap his fingertips against the most inconvenient textures, causing the skin to break and blood flow meekly. It hurt like hell, but it was the only way Arthur knew how to deal with the overwhelming emotions or, at times, the lack of those.

He got so used to expressing himself via making the piano speak for him, or carving paragraphs upon paragraphs into his skin, now that none of the aforementioned solutions were available, he found a new one.

Michael had only one strict rule for Arthur -- no self-harm. So Arthur made sure to always hide his tortured fingertips in the pockets of his trousers or curling them inwards. After a while, it became a habit, a natural instinct.

The only thing reminding him of his rough pre-Michael life were the countless scars flourishing his arms, the evidence of his struggles.

~ December 2011, London

It was December, and Arthur had been restless for quite some time. He was pitifully _horny_.

Of course, by this point, he got into the habit of wanking to images in his head whilst Michael was out.

Mostly, and he realised how pathetic it was, he fantasized about Michael. About gently tugging at his blond, curly hair while Michael sucked him off; about crawling into his bed one night and waking him up with a blowjob; about _kissing_ him.

Arthur had fantasized about kissing _a lot_. As funny as it was, he had never actually been properly snogged. And he was _nineteen_.

He was rather ashamed to be abusing his friend in such an inappropriate, although _never_ -to-be-discovered, way but he couldn’t help it. Michael was sort of always _there_ , smiling and kind and supporting. Arthur couldn’t help but start to fall in love with his gorgeous, generous, _straight_ friend.

Sometimes, however, there were different images in his head.

Dark curly hair, lucent wild eyes and a moaning mouth haunted his daydreams more often than he agreed to admit. Sometimes, a moan of a name that started with “M” changed from “Michael” to _“Merlin”_ , and as it escaped Arthur’s parted lips, he could _taste_ the difference, the curling of his tongue bringing back vivid memories.

Arthur supposed Merlin was in London somewhere, studying at that art uni of his, but he never cared to go look for him. As far as Arthur was concerned, the past should have stayed in the past. And if his occasional fantasies featured him devouring the cupid bow of Merlin’s mouth instead of the thin lines of Michael’s lips, no one but him could have ever known that.

~

It was a week before Christmas, and Arthur felt particularly lonely. It had always been the worst time of the year for him, the time when all the “happy family” spirit in the air persistently reminded him of the absence of his own.

Arthur tried to blobk out the outside world the best he could, staying indoors for weeks on end and listening to all the _non-Christmasy_ piano pieces on the Internet.

He’s discovered so many talented contemporary composers that he was almost always trying to listen through their entire discography in one day to be able to get to the next one as soon as possible.

Since Arthur couldn’t get to the piano himself, he loaded his mind with thousands of new pieces, humouring himself with “pop quizzes” every now and then. He would put the playlist on shuffle and turn away from the monitor, trying to guess the composer and the name of the music correctly. Usually, out of thirty, Arthur got all the thirty names right but if he had mistaken even one tune, he’d beat his fingers against the jagged, where it curled inwards and under, edge of the metal sink until the melody quite literally bled through his fingertips, making sure he didn’t forget it next time.

Arthur had planned to abstain himself completely from the Christmas frenzy that was going on, so when one evening Michael said they needed to talk, he thought something had happened. Apparently, the only thing that happened was Christmas.

“Listen, mate, I need a favour,” said Michael, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur felt the warmth spread through him. _‘Perhaps he wants to spend Christmas with me,’_ he thought. _‘Perhaps, he wants me to cook the holiday dinner.’_ Arthur grinned.

“Absolutely. Anything, you know that, Mike.”

Michael stood right in front of him, taking him fully by the shoulders, and stretched his beautiful lips in a wide smile. For a second, Arthur deliriously decided Michael was going to kiss him, or ask Arthur to kiss him, and felt shivers of anticipation running through his body.

“I need you to go out for a couple of days. Can you do it?” Michael tilted his head and looked Arthur in the eyes, the stupid smile still playing on his dry lips.

Arthur lowered his eyes and tried to will the hollow feeling inside him to go away.

“You see, there’s this woman, Claire, from work, she doesn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with, and I invited her over and, well, I’m hoping for some reward action, if you know what I mean,” Michael winked.

 _‘I don’t have anyone to spend Christmas with either, thank you very much for asking,’_ bitterly thought Arthur. But then he remembered who or rather what he was to Michael - an obstacle on his way to have sex, apparently.

“No problem. I can do that.” Arthur said.

“Thanks, Claude. You’re brilliant,” Michael squeezed his shoulders once and strolled off, carelessly whistling _'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'_.

He had obviously forgotten that Arthur, in fact, had absolutely nowhere else to go.

 


	11. Christmas 2011

Arthur decided not to dwell on his acute loneliness. He knew if he did, he’d likely not survive that Christmas at all.

Instead, he was set on using the fair amount of money Michael had given him to get lost -- as Arthur had put it in his head -- on booking a luxurious suite in an expensive hotel. He was going to spend time bathing in the lap of luxury, pretending he hadn’t lost everything, if it was only for one night. Arthur had to remind himself what his life would become once he reached twenty-one, safe and comfortable and _pleasurable_ again.

So he dressed in his best clothes, spent half an hour combing his hair before grabbing his coat and going out, politely telling Michael to have _a merry Christmas_.

Michael had the courtesy to explain to him that he wasn’t going to spend the holidays with his family because they have never had the tradition of celebrating it as a 'getting together' event. Turned out, Michael’s great grandfather had died on Christmas eve a long time ago and the miserable spirit of the date survived through all three generations.

He didn’t specify what had happened but Arthur guessed it might have been a self-inflicted death upon Michael’s vague, _‘my grandfather found him in the attic’_ , complete with the piercing knowing look he levelled at Arthur.

And the aforementioned _Claire_ had no family to speak of, so Michael gallantly proposed they spend the three days of celebration together.

Arthur supposed it was only fair. Michael must have been tired of Arthur’s face and longed for some time to himself. But the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave Arthur’s mind, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

In attempt to get rid of it, he tried looking around as he was walking from the tube towards the hotel. But the decorations and the cheerful fairy lights only made the uncomfortable knot in his stomach tighter, so he started humming Beethoven's _Neue Liebe, Neues Leben Op. 75_ in the hopes of easing the strange anxiety thrumming through his body.

He got to the part of the second verse when he reached the hotel. A tired-looking doorman opened the door for him, and Arthur politely nodded in response, automatically wishing him a Merry Christmas. The porter absentmindedly thanked him, glassy-eyed.

Arthur was a bit surprised at his state until he actually passed the threshold and saw them. People. More specifically, what looked like hundreds of people. The doorman must have been rather exhausted by now, opening and closing the doors and saying “Thank you” and “Merry Christmas” endlessly for the whole evening.

It seemed to be like some sort of event was going on, judging by the glasses of champagne in guests’ hands and the constant murmur of small talk.

Arthur was infinitely glad he had dressed smart enough to be let in, but the doorman’s lack of attention due to tiredness might also have played a huge part in the fact that Arthur had apparently crashed some sort of a party.

He contemplated turning around and walking back out, choosing a different place to go and having his Christmas dream fulfilled, but then he decided to stay just to spite it all. He wanted to blend in, to feel included, and once he learnt what the occasion was, he might just feign to be an invited person, talking freely and casually with the upper crust, involving them in his fantasy of being _okay_ , of being normal.

So he fixed his face into a mask of polite indifference, as all the attendants of posh events do. Arthur didn’t have to try hard. He had spent many boring hours present at his Father’s official parties, marching around like a high-bred stallion, Uther’s living, breathing achievement. He never failed to parade Arthur around like a prize possession, so  the drilled-in, haughty posture came to Arthur naturally.

Arthur walked up to the table at the far end of the foyer, swiftly moving through the crowd, took a glass of sparkling liquid and looked around.

As he had already noticed, people were dressed fashionably, but not in the black tie sort of way. If Arthur had to guess, he’d say the dress code was ‘cocktail.’ That meant it was likely to be some sort of a company event. Arthur tried to look for a banner that might explain what the gathering was about, but stopped when it saw _it_.

The gorgeous grand piano standing near the enormous windows to the left of the room.

Arthur’s fingers immediately started itching. He longed to go up and open the lid, touch the keys, sit down on the bench and play. Extract the heavenly sounds from the instrument he had dreamt of for so long.

From that point on, nothing around him existed. His gaze was riveted on the black glistening shape of the piano, blurring his vision around the edges.

Arthur decided to wait until most of the guests left so he could nonchalantly ask if he could play. He was mostly sure he’d be granted the permission.

After about an hour, Arthur noticed the crowd receding. He waited some more, treating himself to the savory complimentary snacks in the meantime. Who knew when he would be able to taste such delicious food again.

Once most of the people had departed, leaving only about fifty attendants left, Arthur thoroughly cleaned his hands with a napkin, recovered all the ‘posh boy swagger’ he could manage and walked up to a person who seemed to be in charge.

Upon hearing his polite inquiry, the woman he was asking smiled and amicably agreed, just like he had expected her to. Arthur gave her a complacent smile, playing the role of an entitled guest perfectly, and sat at the piano.

He subtly stroked the keyboard, acquainting himself with the instrument, adjusted his posture and placing his foot on the pedal. For a moment, Arthur contemplated on the piece. He didn’t trust himself with playing something complicated, given how he hadn’t practised on any actual keys for a long, long time. He didn’t want to mess up, too. Especially not in front of all these people, who started turning their heads in anticipation of a performance.

Arthur settled on one of David Lanz’s _Love Lost, Love Found._ It was easy to play, but spectacular and it had just the balance of melancholy and tender hope Arthur was feeling like. He couldn’t play anything unmistakably sad since it was a party after all.

The strings sang, the sounds vibrant in the air, filling the room, and for the very first time in ages, Arthur felt the waves of relief washing over him. Gently, they calmed his mind, enveloping him in a blissful veil of music that bled out from under his fingers.

Arthur was rocking back and forth on the stool with the peaceful tempo of the piece, breathing, _breathing_ , watching his fingers fly over the ivory-white keys and graze the lithe black ones.

All too soon, the piece was over, the deep cadence still lingering in the air. Arthur quietly placed his hands on his knees, listening to the blissful sound of music regretfully dissipating.

After a second of absolute silence, he heard an astonishing shock of applause. Arthur opened his eyes he didn't remember closing and realised his was in a room full of people. He had completely forgotten about that.

He felt vulnerable and raw, as if someone had just poured a bucket of icy water over his head. A slight pain in his chest blossomed and prompted Arthur to play something else, just one more time.

He turned to his audience, flashed a false smile and nodded in feigned gratitude. He didn’t need their attention or their ovations. Arthur just wanted to play, to feel the safe blanket of delightful sounds wrapping him in their cocoon once more.

He placed his hands back on the keyboard, probably pushing his luck. Any minute now, someone might start to wonder who he was and  how he got into the party, and his dream of spending the night in the extravagance of the rich hotel would be ruined. But he didn’t care, couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he was sitting at the grand piano with fingers shaking with the desire to play.

Arthur decided not to mess with perfection and played another Lanz piece from the sheet music Alice had gotten him three years prior.

He played _Silent Night_ , briefly noting to himself how it reminded him of the Christmas carol of the same name. He supposed it was a very suitable piece for the occasion.

It was more cheerful that the previous one, passionate and joyfully inspiring. Arthur felt the notes echoing in every cell of his body. He imagined music rummaging through his veins instead of blood, making his heartbeat synchronize with a delicate rhythm.

But everything good eventually ends. So the music ended, too.

Arthur stroked the keys intimately, wordlessly thanking the instrument for the glorious sounds, and softly closed the lid to the accompaniment of applause.

He stood up and bowed to the audience. Arthur saw pleased and open faces, and for a moment, he felt incredibly right.

However unintentionally, he had presented these people with the brilliance of soothing, graceful music, making their eyes glisten with hope and emotional tears.

That was what Arthur truly adored about classical music. It was laughably easy to make people feel emotions without saying a single sentence. The difficulty of finding the right words gave way to grazing the keys, making everyone in the room listen closely to the music, their combined empathy making them a single entity.

This Christmas, Arthur had brought these people hope as a gift, filling their hearts with loving promises of a happy end to all their possible sorrows. He granted their unspoken wish for something bright to lighten up their lives by playing the most magnificent music.

Arthur didn’t have to get into their heads to know all that -- he could tell by the grateful, shimmering eyes that he was right in his assumptions.

In a matter of moments, though, the spell was broken, and the guests started to turn away, already having slipped behind their usual masks of respectful boredom.

Arthur cast a final look at the piano with a sigh, not wanting to go back to pretending to be a cold-blooded important guest at the party. He started considering going to another hotel. He knew it likely wouldn’t correspond with his plans but Arthur longed to get away from that place of fake respect. He already had a false name and a farce of a life -- because perpetually hiding in an apartment out of fear wasn’t even remotely living, it was simply surviving. He didn’t need any more lies.

Arthur thanked the woman he had talked to about playing and she warmly smiled in answer. He passed through the crowd, curtly replying to the goodbyes of perfect strangers and not even looking at their faces, until a hand gripped his arm gently.

“Claude!” someone exclaimed, and Arthur instantly turned at the sound of his -- fake -- name. For an insane second, he thought it was Michael, having come to find him and ask to go back to the flat to spend the holidays together.

But what Arthur actually saw was Merlin’s handsome, scruffy face, his eyes wide and shining with delight.

Arthur felt his lips reflexively stretch in a smile. He couldn’t believe they were meeting again and under such unexpected circumstances as these.

“Merlin? What are you doing here?”

Merlin laughed and Arthur’s memory was momentarily flooded with all the images of Merlin he had buried in his head. He felt a familiar warmth spreading through his body. He couldn’t understand why, but every one of their encounters, since that very first time on the train, had been accompanied by that incredibly strange sensation.

“What am _I_ doing here? I helped to organize the event! How come you’re in London?” Suddenly, Merlin’s expression changed to a mix of surprise and disbelief. “Are you one of the clients?!”

Arthur flinched a little at the word ‘client.’ It reminded him of his unfortunate, deeply distressing Plymouth past and the ways he had to swing to keep his head above the water.

“No,” he replied shortly.

“Oh,” Merlin exhaled, and his momentary taut posture relaxed. After a pause, he asked, “Are you staying at this hotel, then?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Arthur realised Merlin’s hand was still comfortably firm on his bicep. “I don’t know where I am staying yet. The friend I’m living with has a date over, so...” He stopped, not knowing what made him share the unnecessary information in the first place.

Merlin’s eyes were quick and piercing, glancing over him and settling on his own. Arthur looked downward, not able to hold the intense eye contact.

“Well, want to go for a drink? I think I can leave now, the party is mostly over,” he smiled, and Arthur saw the same kind honesty in his face as the time he had told him about how lovely Arthur would look in the sun.

Arthur snorted. “Sure. As long,” he added, “as you promise not to tell me I look _lovely._ ”

Merlin blushed.

“Yeah, well, sun might make you prettier, but I must inform you that under the artificial light you look like an absolute goat,” he parried cheekily.

Arthur laughed gleefully, shaking his head at Merlin’s odd choice of names to call him.

“ _Mer_ lin, you just called me _pretty._ Apples and oranges, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t mean you are pretty. Possibly, I mean that the sun rays reflect off your goat horns and you look less like a stubborn blabbing animal,” Merlin teased.

“Of course, whatever you say,” Arthur chuckled, and Merlin gave him an accusatory look before tentatively tugging him along and out of the building.

~

“So, what do you have in mind?” Merlin asked.

They were pointlessly walking down the street, leaving the hotel with all its fashionable guests behind. They didn’t hold hands or anything, but Arthur could feel Merlin’s distant heat radiating from his body every time they accidentally brushed shoulders.

“I actually have no idea what we are supposed to do now,” Arthur smiled.

Merlin slowed his pace almost to a stop. “Well, we _could_ hit a pub and talk over a pint...” He glanced at Arthur, the familiar spark of mischief barely visible, carefully hidden behind the veil of his eyelashes. “Or we could go ‘someplace quiet,’ seeing as how _last time_ it was too loud for you.”

Even with Arthur’s natural ability to completely miss any hints and mysterious double-meanings, he understood what Merlin was referring to. Or, rather, _offering._

Any other time, Arthur would have huffed and chosen the pub, because he wasn’t a _slag,_ and he could definitely manage a meeting without matters going _South,_ but it had been such a long time since he had felt the warm presence of another body, breathing proof that he wasn’t as miserably alone as he felt.

Michael wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely type, and Arthur just longed to _feel_ something. Someone holding him, touching him, his senses starved for affection.

He would have been satisfied with just a hug, or simply lying with someone on the bed and talking, all the while feeling their unmistakable _existence_ near him, proving he was still there, still _alive._

For the lack of better option, Arthur had found other ways to deal with that nagging need of someone. During his aloof childhood, he had the music and those rare moments with Morgana and Gaius. When he couldn’t access that anymore, the feel of his warm blood trickling down his arm and seeing the adamant crimson confirmation of still being _there_ was enough.

But living with Michael, he could access none of those coping mechanisms, and slowly but surely, Arthur began to fall deeper into the pit of numbness, sometimes forgetting altogether why he kept waking up.

So he looked at Merlin, hoping he wouldn’t come off as pathetically wanton, and nodded, his lips stretching in a grin.

Merlin laughed good-naturedly, obvious relief showing on his face. Arthur realised, surprisingly, that Merlin might have been as anxious about asking as Arthur was about answering.

Arthur flagged down a cab. Merlin said the address, and they fell into a companionable silence, exchanging glances and smiles, the air between them charged. Arthur felt the hot anticipation thrumming through his body. In an attempt to ease it a notch, he absentmindedly started tapping Bach's variatons on the invisible keys of his knee.

He heard Merlin chuckle. Arthur turned to look at him with an unspoken question in his eyes.

Merlin pointed at his restless fingers.

“Oh,” Arthur huffed a laugh, “just a habit.”

“I see,” Merlin mused. After a moment, he lightly placed his palm over Arthur’s playing hand, keeping it there as Arthur continued to move his fingers in steady triplets. Gradually, Merlin’s hand became more and more heavy, pressing Arthur’s hand down, until Arthur couldn’t move his fingers swiftly enough and stopped.

He glanced at Merlin, and Merlin smiled back, gently turning Arthur’s hand over and intertwining their fingers.

They kept their hands locked for the rest of the ride, looking out of their respective windows and smiling to themselves.

At some point, Arthur started to twitch his fingers and touch his fingertips to the skin of Merlin’s knuckles, playing Chopin and memorising the texture. By the time they got to their destination, Arthur was sure he’d could play Merlin’s hands with his eyes closed, just like he did with any instrument he’d come to know by heart.

~

Merlin lived on the second floor of five-story red-brick building on the outskirts of London.

“Wait, didn’t you get a full scholarship to some fancy uni? Shouldn’t you be living on campus or something?” Arthur asked as they walked up the stars.

Merlin flashed him a smile over his shoulder. “Aw, you remembered! And no, Claude, I got into Saint Martins, I didn’t get a scholarship. Yet,” he added, getting a key from his pocket.

“Yet?” Arthur didn’t quite understand what Merlin meant by that.

“Yeah, they grant a year of Bachelors scholarship to prospective students. Besides, the campus rules were rather strict for my rebellious artistic soul,” he smiled. “This flat was an amazingly good deal. You coming?” Merlin held the door open for Arthur, already inside the flat himself.

Arthur stepped into the dark room. Merlin closed the door behind them, drifted somewhere to the right and Arthur heard the click of the switch.

He squinted at the bright lights illuminating the room. “Christ, how much do you pay for electricity?! It’s like bloody stage lights are in here!”

Arthur heard Merlin snicker. “I need good lighting to work. I’ll benefit from it when I get that exclusive scholarship.”

After a moment of adjusting to the blinding streams, Arthur looked around.

He was standing in a small empty hall that shifted into the bigger room around the corner. Arthur could see a patch of it from where he was standing.

Merlin led the way into the what turned out to be a living room. A very _messy_ living room that evidently also served as a kitchen judging by the bar island in the corner of it.

“You want a drink?”

“What? Ah, yes, water. Please.”

Merlin grinned at him. “Had too much of the free champagne at the party?”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur reacted, indignant. “In fact, I only had a couple of glasses, thank you very much. I prefer a clear state of mind.” He started unbuttoning his coat, searching for the place to hang it.

“Water it is, then,” nodded Merlin. “There’s a rail over there.” He pointed vaguely at the corner of the room before going to the bar.

Arthur turned his head and saw a very obvious rail. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Probably because it was the only object that wasn’t _covered_ in junk like every millimetre of the room.

Different-sized canvases were scattered around. Some were blank, others were covered in various stages of drawings. Wherever he looked, he was sure to find a stray canvas resting against a white wall, or haphazardly stacked in a pile of books on the couch, or hidden under a grey sweatshirt.

That was another thing. Every bit that wasn’t covered in paper or paintings or sketches disappeared under mountains of clothes upon books upon...was that a plate? And under more clothes.

“Close your mouth or you might swallow a fly,” Merlin joked, coming back with two mugs in his hands.

“I won’t be surprised if a _bird_ appeared from under all this chaos,” Arthur replied, still staring at the _stuff_ incredulously.

He noticed Merlin casting a look around the room. When Arthur turned to look at him, Merlin’s cheeks were flushed, and he looked down bashfully.

“Well, it’s the general area I inhabit, so it’s a bit messy,” he mumbled.

“A bit..?” Arthur broke off, comically exasperated. “ _Mer_ lin, it’s like a herd of bison stampeded through here!”

Merlin huffed. “Oi, shut it, the bedroom is perfectly tidy,” he added, handing Arthur a cup with water.

He took it and raised an eyebrow at Merlin. “Bedroom?”

The slight blush from before hit flaming proportions, creeping down Merlin’s neck and under the jacket that he still wore. He opened his mouth to say something, but his facial expression was so lost, Arthur couldn’t suppress a laugh.

Merlin frowned, still not looking at him, so Arthur decided to tone down the teasing, seeing as how it had obviously reached the point of making Merlin uncomfortable.

“Speaking of bedrooms, why don’t you start with removing your jacket?”

At this, Merlin finally raised his head to look at him. He chuckled and shook his head.

“Right. Hold my mug, would you.”

Arthur waited until Merlin shrugged off his jacket, retrieved his cup from Arthur’s hand and led him to one of the doors on the left side, crossing the threshold first and turning on the bedside lamp. It appeared to be the only source of light in the room, the screens on the window shut tightly.

Merlin went back to turn off the illumination in the hall.

“Electricity bills, right?” he smiled, mocking Arthur’s question from before.

They sat on the bed, quietly drinking from their mugs.

A minute went by.

“So,” Merlin broke the silence. “How come you are in London? Actually, come to think of it, what did you do in Plymouth?” Merlin paused and laughed. “You know, it’s ridiculous how little I know about you. You might be a serial killer or a psycho, and I just invited you into my home.” He shook his head.

“Why did you?” Arthur asked quietly.

Merlin was right. They had only seen each other a couple of times, and none of those were very informative regarding who Arthur was or what he was doing with his life. Merlin didn’t even know his real name, but Arthur supposed Merlin had no idea about that little detail.

Merlin glanced at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. You are sort of...mysterious. It’s a little fascinating.”

Arthur laughed.

“What?” Merlin’s voice came out high-pitched, and it amused Arthur even further.

“It’s just,” he managed, still chuckling. “Your choice of words. It’s always so...unpredictable.”

Merlin smiled widely, “I aim to please.”

Arthur drained the water from his cup in one gulp and put the empty mug on the table near the bed. He swiftly took off his jumper, hanging it on the iron headboard. 

“Is that so?” He turned to Merlin, the anticipation from earlier hitting him anew, having calmed a little during their small talk. Merlin swallowed, looking him in the eye. He started leaning towards him, and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. _‘That’s it,’_ he thought, _‘I'm about to get the first proper kiss in my life.’_

His heartbeat quickened, making blood rush maddeningly in his veins. Arthur was about to close his eyes when he noticed Merlin leaning aside, stretching his hand still holding the mug somewhere past Arthur. Suddenly, he heard a thud, and felt a liquid splashing onto his side and trail down his knee.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Merlin, bolting up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Arthur turned and saw the mug rolling on the floor, a puddle of water on the tabletop, dripping on the cord of the lamp and sneaking along it down to the socket.

“Quick, there is Kleenex in the drawer!” Merlin tried to stop the water with his hands, not letting it slide right to the end.

Arthur hastily opened the drawer, getting out the tissues, and helped Merlin clean the mess and, upon putting the paper towels back, noticed something else in the contents.

He put the Kleenex aside, instead focusing his attention on the glistening metal.

“What’s this, Merlin?” he asked, taking out a pair of silvery handcuffs and dangling them in front of Merlin’s face.

“Um.”

Merlin’s face flushed in the dim light of the yellow lamp. He looked at Arthur with an expression of someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Arthur waited for the reply, struggling not to laugh at the look on Merlin’s face.

“Well, as you can clearly see, those are, um, handcuffs,” Merlin managed after a moment, getting up from where he was crouched on the floor and wiping his hands on a clean tissue.

Arthur suddenly got an idea. During their ride in the taxi, he had been trying to come up with a way to hide his forearms from Merlin. Arthur didn’t have any fresh wounds, but the sizable, unmistakable scars covering his skin would surely arise the uncomfortable questions Arthur didn’t feel like answering.

“Can we use them?” he asked, watching the metal shine. Arthur studied the lock and it appeared that they could be opened by pushing a tiny trigger alongside the keyhole. He supposed he could fasten and unlock them himself. He didn’t hear Merlin’s reply, so he turned to look at him.

Merlin was staring back, open-mouthed.

“Merlin?” Arthur called. For a second, he was afraid he might have pushed it too far.

“Oh? Yes, I mean,” Merlin shook his head, lowering his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be...into that.”

Arthur smiled. “You think about my preferences in bed much, then?” He asked innocently, watching Merlin fumble with the crumpled tissue in his hands.

Merlin scowled at him, then said, his tone serious, “You sure you want to do this? I mean, jokes aside, we’re literally only seeing each other for the third time and, well, you already trust me this much?”

“Of course not, but what can you possibly do to me?” Arthur teased, not wanting to admit how Merlin was the person he surprisingly believed to mean no harm. To anyone. It was a surprise for Arthur because he had gotten so used to be wary of any contact he made with the outside world, constantly alarmed at any sudden initiative coming from a stranger. He was extremely paranoid about random people talking to him, always afraid the next person might be his father’s acquaintance.

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” replied Merlin, lowering himself on the bed and sliding up towards Arthur, prompting him to move back and bracketing his body with his arms against the headboard.

Arthur sneaked his hand around the intricate, iron pattern of the frame behind him, feeling for the perfect place to cuff his wrists to. Merlin started sliding his hands down Arthur's arms as well, but Arthur stopped him.

"No, I'll do it myself," he breathed.

"Not trusting me that much then, are you?" Merlin smiled.

"I just don't want you to set the place on fire somehow," Arthur parried, his lips brushing Merlin's cheekbone. "Besides, don't you have better places to put your clumsy hands on?"

Merlin laughed gleefully and drew back, straddling Arthur's thighs.

"Oh, I will show you just how _clumsy_ my hands are," he promised, placing his hand on Arthur's abdomen under his shirt.

Arthur gasped at the contact. "Yeah?" He started fastening his hands around the iron pole, figuring when his shirt comes undone, Merlin wouldn't be able to remove it completely, effectively leaving Arthur's arms covered.

Merlin leaned towards him, pressing his lips to the tender skin just below his earlobe. He brought his hand to Arthur's neck, caressing the skin softly before dropping it to the first button on his collar.

Slender fingers travelled downward, popping the studs open as he whispered hotly in Arthur's ear.

"Claude...Tell me what do you want?" Arthur let out a moan. The cuffs around his wrists were tightly closed, effectively preventing him from moving his hands freely.

He didn't actually know what he wanted. He wanted a kiss. He wanted Merlin to press his full lips to Arthur's, smearing his mouth with the hot touch.

He wanted Merlin to hold him close, to make him come, to let him _feel._

And there were only two ways Arthur knew how to be able to feel.

"I want you to hurt me," he whispered, breathing in the dizzying scent of Merlin's skin.

Merlin only moaned in reply, and grinded down hard on Arthur's thighs, simultaneously pressing their clothed erections together. He appeared to have lost control for a second, fingers slipping from where they were busy undressing Arthur and travelling up, gripping his blond strands to the point of blissful pain.

Next second, Merlin was already continuing feverishly in his ear, "I'm going to suck your cock until you beg me to let you come, and then I'm going to stop and mark your skin, so that every time you undress, you remember how bloody marvellous this was." He tugged at Arthur's hair, pushing his head back to bare his throat, vulnerable for Merlin to sink his teeth in.

Merlin lapped at Arthur's Adam's apple, grazing it slightly with his sharp canine teeth and then kissing it better.

At this point, Arthur's breath was coming out in little puffs, his heart racing in his chest to process enough oxygen into his boiling blood.

"And then I'm going to ride you until your vision breaks into a million pieces of surrealism," Merlin promised, his voice dropping a whole octave lower. Arthur chuckled but then was barely able to contain the scream that threatened to pierce the air as Merlin unexpectedly bit him, hard.

"Shhh," soothed Merlin, licking the stinging trace. "Don't make me gag you."

Arthur moaned wantonly, imagining what it would have felt like.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" smiled Merlin, his voice laced with feigned innocence, as if he was asking what Arthur would want for dinner.

"Yes," breathed Arthur, already overwhelmed with sensations.

He loved every second of it. Completely being in Merlin's power, reduced to a puppet in his hands, only responsible for giving himself fully to him, for once not required to be the one in control.

It unnerved him, too. The loss of being in charge, the inability to take absolute rule of present events -- it was so new, so breathtakingly dangerous. Arthur automatically struggled out of the metal restraints, trying to take over, but with a maddening rush realised he _couldn't._

Merlin opened his shirt and tugged it over Arthur's shoulders, leaving it pooling on his elbows.

"Wow, look at you," Merlin whispered gently, and dug his fingernails into Arthur's chest painfully, a drastic contrast to his tender voice.

Arthur involuntarily let out a yelp at the burning scratches across his skin. It was _good,_ better than the ecstasy of flowing music from before, better than the sensation of the knife on his skin Arthur hadn't felt for so long, he had almost forgotten the sharp sting of it.

Merlin kissed the raw marks his fingers left, sucking on Arthur's nipples, and trailing his kisses down, _down_ , until he reached the waist of Arthur's trousers.

By this point, Arthur couldn't help but buck his hips up, trying to get any friction he could, but Merlin tortured him, not giving an inch.

"So hard for me, Claude," Merlin smirked, and Arthur flinched.

He had heard that line so many times from perfect strangers, using him for their satisfaction. It disturbed the perfect balance of comfortable peace and desperate arousal, biting at his ear.

"Don't...Don't call me that, please," he managed, opening eyes he didn't remember closing and glancing down at Merlin. Wide blue eyes stared back at him, the confused expression almost moving Arthur to reveal his secret.

If Merlin were to act up, Arthur probably would have told him the whole deal, but Merlin only nodded, smiling in a strangely sad way, and replied, "Okay."

Arthur threw his head back against the iron frame as Merlin nuzzled into his crotch, pawing at it with his hand.

"As long as you are a _good boy_ ," he added with a wicked grin.

Arthur nodded frantically, pushing his hips up. He heard Merlin laugh and swiftly undo his fly, tugging down his trousers along with his pants.

A ghost of cold air touched Arthur's hot cock, and Arthur moaned.

"Merlin...Merlin, why the bloody hell are _you_ still fully dressed?!" He pouted, taking Merlin's lithe figure in.

"Silence, _darling_ ," Merlin mused, wriggling down and settling snugly between Arthur's legs. "Or I seriously might have to gag you," he winked at Arthur, snaking his hands around Arthur's spread thighs.

Arthur saw Merlin reaching down into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieving a condom. _That sly bastard._

As if able to read his thoughts, Merlin laughed smugly, opening the packet.

He put the rubber between his lips, dipping his head to roll the condom onto Arthur's cock _with his mouth._ Arthur shuddered as he felt wet heat surrounding his cockhead.

He had never experienced something quite like this before.

Sure, he has been sucked off by some fellows who have been hungry for a boy's member but it had always been sloppy, hurried, never sensual like this. Arthur supposed it was strange of them to let him stay over in exchange for giving _him_ a blowjob. Then again, it was still infinitely better than kneeling before crotch after crotch, the only difference being the colour of pubic hair or lack thereof. Besides, Arthur genuinely liked getting his cock sucked.

Merlin progressed to take almost all of his length into his mouth, working the remaining centimetres with his hand. Arthur's moans turned into panting, his vocal chords dry from all the air he struggled to push into his straining lungs.

When Arthur was nearing the final stretch, his open legs trembling in anticipation, Merlin suddenly drew back, letting go of Arthur's completely. Arthur grunted in displeasure but Merlin only laughed gleefully at the sound.

He blew cool air on Arthur's glistening cock and Arthur felt it twitch. He groaned impatiently.

"Merlin, what the --"

"Silence," Merlin repeated sternly.

He pushed himself up on the bed. Arthur heard a drawer open and the clinking sound flew to his ear. In a moment, he felt cold metal being pushed over his heated member, all the way down to the base.

 _A cockring_ , Arthur realised suddenly. Despite never having the chance to learn the sensation of it, he knew it couldn't have been anything else.

He contemplated asking Merlin _what the hell,_ but Merlin would probably simply order him to keep his mouth shut again. So Arthur decided to relax and watch the performance instead.

And it was something to look at.

Not wasting another second, Merlin quickly shucked off his clothes, left in all of his naked glory.

Arthur rapturously took the sight in. Merlin's body was lean and graceful, dark hair scattered across his narrow chest, the trail trickling down, down, to form an unruly pattern in the dip of his pelvis.

Merlin was fully hard. Arthur's eyes widened a little at his size. He wasn't little in that aspect himself but Merlin's proportions were somewhat terrifying. _Terrifyingly desirable._

"Don't look so hungry for it, _sweetheart,_ it might give me ideas," Merlin smirked. Arthur's attention snapped back to Merlin's movements.

He was presently closing the lid of a bottle of what Arthur supposed was lube. After spreading the slick substance all over his fingers, Merlin shifted to stand on his knees. He brought a hand behind his back and Arthur's delirious brain belatedly caught up with what Merlin was doing.

He was fingering himself right in front of Arthur, _Jesus Christ,_ with his mouth slack open in shameless pleasure. It was almost too much to endure, and Arthur was grateful for the cockring preventing him from finishing embarrassingly soon.

At some point, Merlin put his left hand near Arthur's hip, leaning in while standing almost on all his fours except the right hand still working behind him with a filthy sound.

His lips were a hair away from Arthur's, Merlin's hot breath tickling Arthur's upper lip. He tilted his head as if for a kiss but as soon as Arthur angled closer, Merlin drew back a little, never quite in close enough proximity to press their mouths together.

Arthur dropped his head back, breathing loudly in time with Merlin's exhales. Immediately, Merlin chased the movement, again coming close to kissing him but never quite.

He continued stretching himself with his fingers, looking Arthur in the eye, his long eyelashes fluttering as he dropped his gaze to stare at Arthur's full lips.

Still staring at Arthur's mouth, Merlin bit his lower lip, the resulting loud moan sounding desperate. If Arthur took a wild guess, he would say Merlin was thinking exactly the same thoughts as Arthur. _How would it feel if Merlin sank his teeth into the smooth texture of Arthur's plump lip?_ Arthur felt his mind edging to the point of lust-induced insanity.

"Merlin, please," he breathed, too far gone to care if his voice sounded unabashedly pleading.

Thankfully, Merlin seemed as eager for action as Arthur was. He carefully took off the cockring, warning, ‘ _don't come yet'_ , before he did so. After discarding the metal, Merlin hastily moved back to position himself above Arthur's head before slowly, excruciatingly _slowly_ sinking down.

Arthur had to hold his breath to stop the sounds escaping from his throat.

While Merlin was adjusting, Arthur seated deep inside him, he bent down to lap and suck on Arthur's nipples, biting down with his sharp teeth every once in awhile.

Arthur's uncontrollable guttural growl was reverberating through his chest to the point where he couldn't pinpoint if he was shaking or that was just the sound resonating in him anymore.

"You are gorgeous, _dear_ ," Merlin murmured into his skin. "So beautiful, _my dear_."

"What's with all the endearing names, Merlin?" Arthur managed over his unstoppable growling that sounded suspiciously like purring. He tried to take himself under control and failed miserably, his body finding the most ridiculous way to let out the intense tension.

"You did ask me not to call you ‘Claude', remember?" Merlin smacked his lips after a particularly harsh bite at Arthur's skin. "I have to call you _something._ "

"Oh," Arthur closed his eyes as Merlin circled his hips a little. And protested he might have died as his brain short-circuited from the pleasure.

 _Pain._ The next thing Arthur knows is a sharp jolt sobering him up. Merlin had a handful of his blond strands, tugging roughly as he clasped his free fingers around the iron headboard to use as leverage.

Merlin was moving faster and faster, riding Arthur full-force, the obscene sound of skin on skin making Arthur feel feverishly hot.

It was better than Arthur had _ever_ experienced. The impossibly tight heat around him, the harsh sting of a strong grip in his hair, the feeling of somebody giving it to him while simultaneously _giving in_ to him -- all of it almost tipped him over the edge. Almost, but not quite enough.

"Harder, Merlin, please, harder," Arthur keened, voice shockingly loud. He attempted to bring his hands to Merlin's hips to control the tempo, the intenseness of the friction but for the millionth time this evening realised he _couldn't,_ his wrists safely fastened in handcuffs behind his back.

Arthur growls in defeat but the lack of power over anything at the moment flared white hot in him, increasing his desire tenfold.

"You want it harder?" Merlin panted in his ear yanking his head back.

_"Yes."_

He stilled. The bastard _stopped moving completely._ Arthur's eyes flew open in disbelief.

Merlin was positively dishevelled. His chest was heaving rapidly, the blush spiralling down from his cheeks to blossom all over his collarbones. Merlin's eyes were glowing in the dim light of the lamp, the shadows cast across his face tincturing his expression a slightly dangerous context.

For a splinter of a second, Arthur actually felt scared. For all he knew, Merlin might turn out to be a murderous lunatic who Arthur had assiduously searched for only to get unexpectedly killed during a session of fantastic sex.

However, next moment Arthur came to his senses and shook off the flimsy idea. Merlin was the last person Arthur would expect of having any intention of harming people. At least not without their prior consent.

"If you want anything, _baby,_ you have to ask for it." Merlin bared his teeth in a blithesome grin.

"I am asking, aren't I?" Arthur spits back. There was only so much he could take, patience never being his strong point.

"You aren't asking hard enough, sweetie," Merlin bent down to lick a stripe up his throat. "Or should I say, ‘salty'?" He licked his lips and hummed contentedly.

Arthur's breath hitched. Fuck, if that's what it took to get to fucking come tonight, well then Merlin could go screw himself because Arthur was _never_ is going to beg someone to --

" _Please,_ Merlin, fuck, what else do you want me to say?!"

"Tell me how much you want it."

"Badly," Arthur snarled, not sure whether he was furious or overwhelmingly turned on anymore.

"Now, honey, that's not a proper tone for asking for something. _Tell me,_ " Merlin bit his earlobe, possibly in retaliation for Arthur's snappy comeback or maybe to prompt him into going on a tirade.

"Bloody hell, Merlin, if I weren't handcuffed right now, _which, by the way, I have the power to not be at any given second,_ I would throw you on your back and fuck you so hard you bite your overly witty tongue and I swear to God, if you don't fucking move this instance, I will pull the trigger on these shitty fake restraints and hold you down as I drive into you with all the --"

Arthur's litany broke on a harsh cry ripping out of his throat as Merlin pushed himself up and ground down, picking up the pace with a wild abandon.

They both moan loudly, the sounds mingling and creating a mellifluous string of extase.

Merlin bit Arthur's neck, the sting overlapping with the dull ache from his previous attacks and it was enough for Arthur to fly over the edge.

He was at the tip of his orgasm when he heard Merlin chanting, "Just a bit more, love, just a little… _Fuck_ \--"

Merlin's body tensed, his arse clenching around Arthur's cock, milking him through the ecstasy.

When the blinding dots in front of Arthur's eyes dissipated so he could see again, he watched Merlin gingerly sliding off of Arthur's softening member.

Merlin smiled at him, rolling the condom off and tying it before standing up to disappear behind a door. He came back with a wet cloth, sat on the bed to carefully wipe Arthur's chest. Arthur looked down and saw streaks of white come covering his upper body, reaching as far as his neck.  
He hadn't noticed it landing. Probably was too high on the wave of his own bliss.

After Merlin was satisfied with his job, he slowly leaned in. Arthur didn't have the time to think about the implications before Merlin touched his lips to the corner of Arthur's mouth.

"You can lose the handcuffs now, you know," Merlin's smile was unreasonably shy.

Arthur hoped for maybe another peck, this time preferably on the lips, or a real kiss, but Merlin was already standing up with the cloth clutched in his hands.

"I'm going to take a shower. You can go after me. I assume you are staying over for some tea..?" Merlin's tone was so hopeful that even if Arthur had anywhere to go, he wouldn't be able to refuse the offer.

"Yes, tea would be great."

Merlin's lips spread in a joyful smile before he awkwardly walked out of the room.

Arthur pushed the lever of the restrains, dropping the metal on the bedside table and rubbing his numb wrists. The handcuffs left barely visible red traces on his skin. He distantly regretted that it was not going to bruise.

Arthur found his forgotten briefs and pulled them on for the time being. He laid down on the bed to wait until Merlin got out of the shower.

By the time Merlin entered the room, Arthur was already sleeping soundly. He didn't see the small smile quirking Merlin's lips up as he carefully tugged the covers from under Arthur's body, climbing in beside him and turning off the lamp.

Arthur didn't feel Merlin hugging him close, whispering, "Good night, _darling_ ," in his ear before snuggling into Arthur's neck to sleep.

~  
The next morning Arthur woke up to the smell of food. His stomach grumbled.

He looked around the room, for a second recalling where the hell he was before realising Merlin wasn't beside him. He must have been making breakfast, then.

Arthur tried to remember where he had left his bag when he realised he didn't bring one. He cursed silently, used to having his necessities at hand at all times.

 _For what it's worth,_ Arthur decided and went to take a shower. He awkwardly brushed his teeth with his finger, the unexpectedly strong minty taste of the toothpaste making his eyes water.

After tugging on his underwear, black trousers and throwing his baby blue jumper atop of his crumpled white shirt, Arthur attempted to get his hair to look less like a bedhead and more in an attractive ‘been-shagging-all-night' way.

He entered the living room to see Merlin pouring the steaming water from the kettle into two mugs.

"Morning, sunshine!" Merlin beamed at him. "You look stunning as always. Breakfast?"

"Look who's chirpy," Arthur muttered, coming to sit on one of the high stools at the bar table.

"Of course I'm chirpy, Claude, it's Christmas!" Merlin exclaimed loudly, his eyes radiating and lucently blue. "Which reminds me...Do you have anywhere to be?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows at him, sipping his hot tea.

"Oh, it's not me trying to subtly kick you out," Merlin added hurriedly. "It's just, I don't really have company tonight and I thought if you weren't busy, we could spend the day together?"

Arthur stayed silent, waiting to see where Merlin's rambling would take him.

"Shit, that came out so dochey," Merlin shook his head and took a deep breath. "Look, it's not that I am trying to get just _anyone_ to spend Christmas with me, yeah, I mean I could call my mates and go out, but…"

Merlin quietened, biting his lip and looking at Arthur uncertainly.

"But?" Arthur prompted.

"But frankly, it doesn't seem you have anyone to hurry to, either. So I thought we'd make a pretty good pair together, huh?"

Arthur contemplated getting offended, arguing that he _did_ have someone to go back to and leaving Merlin's flat. However, in the end he simply nodded in agreement, figuring there was no profit in pretending. He had to spend another two days out of Michael's home anyway, so why not do it with Merlin?

"Great! I was starting to worry I'd have to eat all the pies myself," Merlin grinned, getting a plate out of the microwave.

"You made pies?" Arthur's eyes widened in disbelief. Did Merlin get up earlier to _bake?_

"No," Merlin laughed. "You remember that time in Penzance when we met in the pub? I was with this dark-haired guy, Gwaine?"

Arthur hummed noncommittally.

"Well, he visited me a couple of days ago with his girlfriend, Elena. She is a marvellous cook." Merlin sighed happily, getting the knife to cut the cuisine into pieces. "I suppose she was able to actually become his girlfriend because she had figured something nobody before her could. That the truest path to Gwaine's heart lies through his stomach," Merlin snorted.

Arthur took the offered plate with the deliciously looking pie and grabbed a fork.

"Enjoy the food, Claude," Merlin winked at him before stuffing his own mouth full.

~

They spent the day watching TV and eating baked goods, sometimes pausing the programme to talk about random things.

Arthur learned that Merlin had a strange way with words, mainly expressing his thoughts by transforming them into images in his head and then describing what his mind pictures. Arthur remembered the first words he had heard from Merlin, back when they were on the speeding train, and chortled. It all made sense now.

In his turn, Arthur told Merlin how he enjoyed playing the piano, the power to make the audience contented or weeping with sadness just on the tips of a pianist's fingers.

They ended up trading fun facts about composers and artists.

_"Mozart was curiously obsessed with arses."_

_"Miro starved himself to induce hunger hallucinations to work on his art."_

_"Debussy had a great appetite. Once he went to a pub and ordered a table for four and four giant meals. When the meals arrived, the waitress asked him when were his friends were coming to which he irritably asked her to leave him the fuck alone and let him eat in peace. He was spectacularly bitchy for a composer with such calming music."_

_"Duchamp created a ‘Mona Lisa: LHOOQ' which basically consisted of him drawing a moustache on Mona Lisa's face. He reasoned that was lowering the ideal of ‘female beauty' to a reality of women having flaws. I think that was very feminist of him. That artwork is so amazing, Claude."_

_"Rimsky-Korsakov never studied music and was a self-taught composer. When he had to give lectures, students knew more about theory than he did."_

_"Rousseau was a self-taught artist who is thought to be the forerunner of the Surrealists movement although he himself never followed or was influenced by any art movement."_

_"Liszt was the rock-star of classical music. Husbands often forbade their wives from visiting his recitals because they ended up cheating with Liszt. I actually can't blame them."_

_"Cheating is really gross though, Claude."_

In the evening, Merlin suggested they go for a walk but Arthur politely declined, saying he didn't like to get outside much. Merlin didn't insist.

They stayed home shagging each other's brains out before going to sleep in a bundle of tangled limbs in Merlin's bed.

Boxing Day was spent in more or less the same fashion. When Arthur woke up the next morning, he decided it was definitely time for him to go home. He didn't want to strain Merlin's hospitality.

At the threshold, Merlin slipped a piece of paper into his palm.

"If you ever want to gossip about famous dead people or, you know…" Merlin smiled slyly. "Give me a call."

Arthur nodded, carefully tucking the note into the pocket of his trousers.

"I had a great time. Thank you for staying with me, Claude." Merlin added, squeezing Arthur's bicep.

Arthur wanted to tell him his real name, to end this farce and tell Merlin how it _really_ was, but in the end he just quirked his lips in a small smile and ran down the stairs into the cold December air.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like to note that the characters' opinions and views do not necessarily correspond with the author's. 
> 
> But if you feel the need to protest against something written in this chapter -- I would ask you to please continue reading because there is likely an explanation further in the story.

~ 11:34 p.m., 9th of November 2012

Following Merlin's directions, Arthur found the building and pressed the intercom button.

"Claude?" A muffled voice waited for his confirmation before Arthur heard a buzz and opened the door.

He walked up the stairs and saw Merlin's smiling face. He was holding the door of his flat open. Arthur nodded at him, crossing the threshold.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," said Merlin cheekily.

Arthur realised he was staring at the living room. "It's...not the same place as the last time. Did you move or just clean up?”

Merlin scoffed. "No, genius, it's a different flat entirely. My mate from the agency got a transfer for a year, so he generously allowed me to look after his plants for a year or so, not that it's any of your business."

"Right, the agency you're working at?" Arthur began to take off his coat.

"I don't actually work there yet. More like, freelance with an opportunity to earn some credit in the field. You can hang your coat over there."

Arthur turned in the direction Merlin was pointing. There was a light mahogany wardrobe with a deck of hangers nailed to it on his left.

"Our third party is not here yet," Merlin threw over his shoulder, disappearing behind a single door on the right wall. "Want something to drink?”

" _Third party,_ Merlin, Jesus," Arthur snorted.

"What was that?" Merlin yelled from the other room.

"Um, water!" Arthur shouted in reply.

He glanced around the room.

The large space seemed to serve simultaneously as the living room and the hall. A big dark-brown leather coach stood in the middle of it in front of the giant TV with a coffee table between them.

The walls were a calming shade of beige, various artworks hanging around the flat diluting the mundane pattern.

Next thing Arthur noticed was an exceptionally large window on the far end of the room. It stretched across the entire wall with a cozy-looking windowsill covered in pillows. Large golden drapes were tucked neatly on both sides of it.

And in the left corner, there stood a stunning dark-brown piano. Arthur's breath hitched. He couldn't resist the urge to approach it, open the lid and touch the smooth ivory keys.

"You can play it if you want.”

Arthur jerked in surprise when Merlin's voice came unexpectedly behind his back. He turned and saw Merlin sitting down on the couch, putting two glasses on the coffee table.

"That water has some strange colour to it," Arthur pointed out.

"What? Oh," Merlin chuckled. "I just thought you could use some vitamins in your system. I'll get you water if you really want it, though. Or some rum to your cherry juice." Merlin winked with a suggestive smile.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to get me drunk?”

"No! You just seem a little tense, is all."

"And alcohol is the right way to relax, I presume." Arthur enjoyed watching blush creeping onto Merlin's cheeks.

"Um," said Merlin, looking down.

"Relax, Merlin, I'm just messing with you. Although no, I really prefer to stay sober tonight." Arthur glanced back at the piano. "So whose beauty is this?”

"Oh, it belongs to my mate who is overseas right now. You know, the one I told you about. He plays." Arthur looked at Merlin to see him drinking his juice, slowly licking his lips afterwards. Arthur hoped he didn't notice Arthur tracing the movement with his eyes.

"He is an artist _and_ a musician?”

"Well, what can I say? He's one talented man," Merlin shrugged.

"Oh," replied Arthur, turning his full attention to the piano. He sat on the stool, hovering his hands above the keyboard.

Arthur didn't know what he wanted to play.

On one hand, he longed for the heavy soprano arpeggios to sing about loss as the low chords dramatically told about anguish. He wanted to rush in fortissimo through the piece, feeling his heart ache as his fingers manipulated the tune into a miserable minor.

But he realised what effect it might have on Merlin and the mood for tonight was definitely not for the suffering. Thus he needed to play not for himself but for the public. The public being entirely Merlin.

Arthur contemplated playing one of Lanz's pieces or attempting to remember Einaudi but in the end he went for the familiar notes of _Fugue in a-moll_ by Glinka. It was a pleasant compromise between his melancholic mood and Merlin's cheerful attitude.

The piece was short, mostly consisting of lively semi-scales and quiet arpeggios. It was pacing and gentle with a hint of soft sadness to it, but it wasn't depressing. More like an accepting resignation into the world of music, the realm of understanding tragedy.

Arthur placed his hands back in his lap, the final chord faintly lingering in the air, prompted by the pedal Arthur was still holding with his foot. He carefully moved his leg and the last note of music dissipated in the absolute silence of the room.

Arthur heard Merlin loudly releasing a breath.

"Wow, that was…" Merlin paused.

"Beautiful?" Arthur smiled, turning to look at him.

"Sad." Merlin's face was serious and a little forlorn.

"Well, that's Glinka for you," Arthur joked, hoping to disguise his own shattered state.

Merlin put the glass he was holding on the table, stood up and came to sit on the piano bench beside Arthur.

In a second, Arthur found himself enveloped into a warm hug. He froze awkwardly, not sure where to put his hands or _was he even supposed to do anything?_

"Uh," said Arthur.

"I'm sorry." Merlin said softly.

"Merlin?" Arthur was positively lost. _Was there something he wasn't getting?_

"You sit at the piano and the first thing you decide to play is sad. Seems to me like you're unhappy right now. I thought you could use a hug," Merlin squeezed him tightly.

"Uh. Thank you?" The only hugs Arthur had ever gotten in his life were either by Morgana or Gaius, and those couple of times when he had stayed Alice. Arthur wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do because those hugs used to last about thirty seconds at best so he knew the drill.

But Merlin was holding him close for more than a minute now and it didn't seem like he was going to let go anytime soon. The behaviour struck Arthur as odd. They'd seen each other for what, three times now? Where was all this sudden affection coming from?

At last, he decided to play along and put his hands on Merlin's back, patting him slightly. Merlin still wouldn't let go.

Arthur guessed he just had to roll with it so eventually he relaxed into the embrace, letting Merlin's warmth seep through his clothes and touch his heart.

Surprisingly, it was comforting. The forgotten feeling of safety settled deep in Arthur's stomach. He closed his eyes, inhaling Merlin's addicting scent. It was a mixture of mint, sweet flowery notes and a sharp peppery perfume that smelled deliciously on his skin. Arthur scrunched up his nose, trying to understand how mint and pepper can smell so good together.

"I think," murmured Merlin with a smile in his voice, "The fact that you are sniffing me is the cue to break this endearing hug."

He delicately drew away, looking Arthur in the eye with a wide grin.

Arthur felt his face heating up. "You smell unusual.”

"Do I now? And what's my 'usual' scent, then?" Merlin's smile turned wicked.

"Shut up, Merlin, you know what I mean."

"No, I really don't."

"Is that perfume?" Arthur's cheeks were downright burning now. He felt like he had just painted himself in an uncomfortable, fabulously-gay corner.

Merlin laughed openly. "Jesus, Claude! Is this an interrogation?"

Arthur tried to keep his pout on but his lips traitorously spread into a grin.

"Anyway, no, that's not perfume. That's probably just my shower gel. And paint. I've been told I reek of paint sometimes although I seriously believe that's just a stereotype-induced hallucination," Merlin said, getting up. "Do you want to play something else? Or you can take a shower before, you know. My mate gets here." Merlin dropped a subtle hint on his way to the couch.

Arthur sobered up. Somehow, he had completely forgotten about his elaborate plans for tonight. The pain that had subsided a notch in the past half an hour blossomed with a new force.

"Yes, shower. Good idea," Arthur nodded, going to the front door and picking up his duffel bag.

"I'll show you the way," Merlin opened one of the two doors on the left side of the room. "This is my bedroom, the bathroom is that way."

Arthur walked through Merlin's room, noticing the enormous bed that took up almost all of the space.

"Right. I won't be long." He said, closing the door.

"You better not be," Merlin's voice came muffled from the other side. "Don't lock it, though. Safety precautions.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but obliged.

He quickly shed his clothes, stepping into the shower and turning on the tap. He saw a green bottle of shower gel on the shelf.

Arthur sniffed it and smiled. That was definitely where the mint on Merlin's skin came from.

When Arthur finished washing and stepped out of the shower, and heard a loud thumping noise coming from the adjacent room. After a moment, he realised that was supposed to be music. Arthur scowled to himself, hoping it might sound better if he listened to it closely.

He dried himself with the small towel he carried in his bag before putting on a clean pair of briefs, looking thoughtfully at his dirty ones. Usually, when Arthur stayed at someone's place overnight, he would hand wash his undergarments and inconspicuously put them on the bathroom heater. No questions were ever asked.

But he wasn't sure if Merlin invited him to stay until morning of if he would have to leave right after the...scene...was over.

Scrunching up his nose in disdain, Arthur wrapped his worn boxers into a t-shirt he had taken off and tucked the bundle deep into his duffel bag. He'd have to do something about the dirty clothes as soon as possible. He couldn't just keep throwing it out or he risked to be left with none at all.

He tugged on his scruffy trousers, fresh socks, adding the previous pair to the pile in the bottom of his bag.

Next he put on a long-sleeved shirt, buttoning up the cuffs. The shirt will have to stay on, he decided with a sigh. He couldn't risk the possibility of Merlin and his mate seeing his scarred forearms. He'd rather they think him weird than irrevocably fucked-up and troubled.

Arthur brushed his teeth, combed his damp hair as best as he could and walked out of the bathroom.

The music blared in the entire flat. That is, if he were to call that awful dissonant nightmare a music.

Arthur found Merlin in the living room drinking the juice or maybe there was some rum already in his glass -- Arthur couldn't tell.

"Merlin, could you please turn that down a little?" Arthur said loudly.

Merlin raised his eyebrows at him over the rim of his glass.

"It's just juice, Claude! It's not like I'm getting drunk here," he rolled his eyes.

"I'm talking about that noise, I mean the music," Arthur put his bag in the corner near the bedroom door.

"Oh," Merlin laughed. "One moment.”

He quickly went into his room and Arthur heard the blabbering nonsense blessedly quieten to the bearable volume.

"Sorry," Merlin flashed him a smile as he re-entered the living room. "I always forget the speakers are all over this place so I turn it up out of habit."

"Where are they, anyway?" Arthur looked around trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

"Oh, I think it's the ceiling. Or walls, I'm not sure. Under the surface somewhere." Merlin vaguely gestured around.

"Hm," said Arthur.

"It's a brilliant idea, isn't it? I'm absolutely going to do the same once I get my own place." Merlin sighed dreamily.

Arthur supposed it was an interesting design idea for a flat except that if he had such a sound system in his home, none of that rubbish "music" would ever make it into the playlist.

There were apparently some words to that song but Arthur couldn't make them out because of all the anguish screaming of the singer. Frankly, he wasn't sure he even wanted to know the lyrics to _that_.

"So where is 'our third party'?" Arthur sat down beside Merlin and took his glass of ruby cherry juice.

"Oh, he is running late. Traffic jams," Merlin smiled apologetically.

"Where did you meet him, anyway?" Arthur sipped his drink, wondering if he'd made a mistake by asking Merlin to bring someone else. He would be perfectly content to spend the entire night alone with Merlin. He reminded himself why had he requested specifically for someone who enjoyed hurting people: this night wasn't about sex or pleasure, it was about the pain of relief.

Even so, a part of Arthur wanted to ask Merlin if perhaps they could call off the expected guest after all.

"During a scene," Merlin's cheeks flushed red. "He is a really great guy. Very polite, thoughtful and tender."

" _Tender_?" Arthur suppressed a laugh.

"What?" Merlin frowned at him. "What did that tone mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just, I thought tenderness was not a quality of someone whose entertainment is mainly dominating other people."

Merlin's eyes widened with shock. He was about to say something when the intercom bleeped.

He rose quickly and answered the machine. Then he turned to Arthur with a stern expression.

"I really hope that remark you just made there was a half-arsed attempt to antagonize me. If you genuinely think like that, I don't think you are ready for what's to come tonight, Claude."

"No, sorry, yeah, I was just messing with you," Arthur sputtered, anxious Merlin might ask him to leave any minute. He felt bad for such a pitiful lies but Arthur couldn't have his Machiavellian plan screwed, not now when he most needed it to work.

Merlin gave him a suspicious look although apparently he decided to let it slide, instead opening the door to let the visitor in.

The man that crossed the threshold was honestly a little intimidating if not downright terrifying. He was tall and muscular, a black expensive-looking jacket tight on his shoulders.

He greeted Merlin, smiling openly at Arthur.

"This," Merlin gestured at him, "is Claude.”

"Hello, Claude," the stranger gave him a once over and nodded approvingly.

"And you are?.." Arthur watched the newcomer take off his jacket to reveal an equally snug white t-shirt that highlighted his trained torso.

"Oh, you can call me 'Master'," smirked the man. Arthur looked at Merlin with a question but Merlin only laughed gleefully in response, shaking his head.

"Well, Master," drawled Arthur, standing up. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'd offer you a hand to shake but I suppose you have the upper one here."

The man laughed. "Smooth." He stretched a hand towards Arthur.

"Excuse my manners, Claude, it's just that I'd rather people I'm only shagging with didn't know my actual name. It's a quirk, if you must. Like Merlin has his weird kissing one."

That was Arthur's cue to turn to stare at Merlin who made a face at Master.

"What's Merlin kissing quirk?" Arthur asked glancing between them.

"Oh, you don't know? Bloody hell, Merlin, is he your b --”

"No, no!" Merlin rushed. He turned to Arthur with his cheeks aflame. "Um.”

"Could one of you please share with the class here?" Arthur said, irritated. He was starting to feel left out.

"Well, Merlin here only kisses his boyfriend," Master drawled out the word 'boyfriend' mockingly.

"You have a boyfriend?!" Arthur's voice came out a little louder than he expected.

"Not at the moment, no," Merlin laughed somewhat nervously.

"Okay, lads, let's get this train on the rails," said Master, tugging his shirt over his head. "I don't have all the night."

"Into the bedroom!" exclaimed Merlin, pumping his fists in the air. Arthur laughed at how dorky Merlin truly was.

~  
He didn't feel like laughing anymore when he was on all fours facing Merlin, and the man who called himself Master touching his bare arse.

The only piece of clothing Arthur still had on was the shirt. He was ready to insist on keeping it on but when he first mentioned it but both Merlin and Master nodded readily with no questions asked.

Arthur supposed that's how the whole 'quirk' policy worked.

They told him the safe word was 'red' and if he felt like it was too much or something was making him uncomfortable, he only had to say it for them to immediately stop whatever they were doing.

Merlin repeatedly asked him if he was sure he wanted to do this, if he was okay, and when Arthur snapped in reply the third time Merlin brought it up, he grumbled something inarticulate at him but seemingly ceased worrying.

So now he found himself in this position out of his control and absolutely powerless .

Arthur's backside hurt from Master's expert hands slapping it twenty times too many. His spine ached from straining to level his face with Merlin's crotch while simultaneously keeping his hips where Master wanted them.

Arthur gripped Merlin's calf with one hand, trying to get some leverage as he arched his body up, taking Merlin's cock in his mouth.

The artificial apple flavour of the condom tasted bitter on his tongue. Arthur swallowed twice, hoping he won't accidentally throw up from the unpleasant flavour.

Merlin's eyes were half-lidded, staring at him from above. Arthur saw Merlin's tongue peek out of his parted mouth to wet his plump lower lip. The movement went straight to Arthur's own erection, blood pulsing so wildly it made him moan, filthily wanton.

Master chuckled from behind. "Easy there, Claude, or you won't make it to the main course.”

Arthur would have scowled if his mouth wasn't presently so full of Merlin, it was a struggle to even breathe properly.

He waited for the wave of relief to numb his senses any moment now.

Last time he was in this state, it had been in Merlin's ruddy flat at Christmas. Arthur longed for the same sensation of safety he'd experienced back then. It was liberating to finally be free of any responsibilities, the absence of power eliminating the opportunity to fuck up.

He was tired of screwing everything up. Arthur was here at this moment precisely because of his reckless actions and he wanted, _needed_ someone to punish him.

Being on the receiving end of the pain he couldn't control was the ultimate punishment, the highest form of his self-destruction.

A spiteful voice in the back of his mind chirped at Arthur about the drowning accident. If he were honest with himself, Arthur would admit that the only reason he justified it as 'an accident' was to escape the obligation to answer for his own decisions. He didn't, _couldn't_ accept the depressing reality of how messed up he really was.

So he found a way to make it all better.

The way he rationalized, if one person could make him feel less desperate about himself, it was only logical that to alter the outcome of a greater failure two people would make a perfect score. A solution based on proportions had always worked perfectly before.

But the desired sensation of relief and safety still wouldn't come. Instead, Arthur felt trapped. Trapped and weak and completely inadequate, his mind racing as he felt the invasion of cold slick fingers inside him. It was the first time Arthur had ever been penetrated in his life, and it felt threatening, distressingly alien.

He drew back, letting Merlin's cock slide out of his mouth to speak but in doing so, Arthur unintentionally slid further on Master's fingers. His move was evidently perceived as greedy consent because he heard Master hum approvingly.

"Stop, stop," Arthur choked, his body taut as he felt on the verge of lashing out to flight, whatever the cost.

"It's okay, you can take it," Master mused, steadily pushing his fingers in and out.

Arthur's mind wrecked havoc. He was trying to remember the bloody safe word, _how the fuck did he manage to forget the safe word?!_

He tried to concentrate, a part of him knowing that this all was the part of the scene, neither Master nor Merlin thinking anything was wrong, but it was in vain. Arthur's brain insistently supplied the words _'purple', 'elephant', 'pleasure', 'condensation', 'ambivalent'_ \-- none of which were the needed safe word, Arthur was certain of it.

At last, he thought he was going to go insane. His body was screaming at him and Arthur felt an overwhelming urge to throw up.

He scratched at Merlin's leg to get his attention, pressing his cheek to the tender skin of Merlin's thigh to ground himself.

"Merlin, please, make it stop," he pleaded, his voice sounding thin. Arthur looked Merlin desperately in the eye, hoping he would understand something was wrong.

Merlin's relaxed face tensed. He frowned at Arthur, bringing his palm to touch his cheek.

"Merlin, _please_ , I...Shit, purple, purple," Arthur chanted trying to make himself heard over the pounding music playing in the background.

__

___Oooh...well I can float here forever___   
_In this room we can't touch the floor_   
_In here we're all anemic_   
_In here - anemic and sweet...so..._   
_Go get your knife, go get your knife_   
_And come in_   
_Go get your knife, go get your knife_   
_And lay down_   
_Go get your knife, go get your knife_   
_Now kiss me_

"Master, red," said Merlin loudly, gesticulating at him.

As soon as the words were out of him mouth, the intrusive fingers inside Arthur disappeared and he saw Merlin crouching down to him.

"Claude? Are you okay?" Merlin's face was full of concern, his eyes searching Arthur's face.

"No," gasped Arthur, scrambling to stand up on trembling legs. Merlin helped him, strong but careful.

"I -- I need to use the bathroom. I'm sorry, I just --"

"Okay, okay, here," Merlin led him to the door and Arthur quickly ducked inside. Automatically, he locked the door behind him. If Merlin said anything about that, Arthur didn't hear, rushing to the toilet and falling on his knees in front of it.

He was just in time because all the juice he'd drank that evening came back up, his stomach convulsing painfully with disgust.

When Arthur was done dry-heaving, he pushed himself up to the sink, splashing his burning face with icy water and rinsing his mouth.

He heard muffled voices from the other room. The music has stopped playing at some point - Arthur couldn't tell exactly when.

He felt dirty, violated and horrifyingly stupid. How could he even suggest this was ever a good idea, to give himself over to someone he didn't even know?

Arthur turned on the shower setting the temperature to the hottest possible, closed the screen and sat on the floor of the stall.

The water scalded his lips, wayward drops landing on his tongue as he opened his mouth in a mute scream, tugging at his hair until it hurt.

Out of all the idiotic choices he's made in his life, this encounter has got to be one of the worst possible ones.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is the final chapter and the **non-con** warning I put in the initial notes applies specifically to this chapter. The way it is written is non-explicit and it isn't Arthur/Merlin (as you could probably already guess) but please be mindful of such action taking place in this chapter.  
>  It will suffice to skip about two paragraphs to avoid the scene completely. (Hint: it's somewhere during Arthur's pub journey).  
> I wouldn't like to spoil the narrative so I won't write any more but if you feel like this particular subject might trigger you, please _please_ stay safe and scroll when you start on reading about Arthur going to the park until you see a black-and-white photo. You might miss some of the plot but I'd rather you feel allright than read whatever that hellish arsehole from hell has to say (without naming any names, you understand).
> 
> Thank you for keeping on reading :) This is the chapter that finally untangles the knot! All of the knots!  
> Now, without further ado

~  
12:47 a.m., 10th of November 2012

“Claude? Claude, you okay in there?” Merlin tapped on the bathroom door from the other side, and Arthur sharply turned his head to double-check that the door was locked.

His heart pounded in his ears, with every beat screaming _disgusting disgusting disgusting_ at him. The scalding hot shower took the edge off, but did little to erase the feeling of being _filthy_ , stained to the soles of his feet, to the insides of his soul.

“Yes, Merlin, I’m fine. Can you please get me my bag? It’s in the living room, I think,” Arthur called shakily.

He knew just the right method to make this excruciating feeling go away. It’d been such a long time since he’d done it, and Arthur almost couldn’t remember the stinging sensation of a blade against his skin. But his veins thrummed in anticipation, a slight tremble settling in his body from having to wait the devastating minute it took for Merlin to find his bag and bring it to him.

He knocked on the door again and Arthur took a deep breath. Not long now.

“If you could leave it near the door, I’d be very grateful,” he said, listening intently to Merlin’s movements on the other side. Arthur walked up to the door and put his ear to the wood. He heard Merlin inhale heavily and after a moment of silence, his resigned, “Okay. Sure. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’ll make you a cuppa, yeah?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Arthur, actively willing Merlin to _go already._ His whole body shook and his fingers slipped twice when he tried unlocking the door.

At last, he managed to open it, quickly grabbing the handle and dragging the duffel inside. He instantly locked the door again, triple-checking that it didn’t open.

Arthur pushed aside the bathmat, careful not to slip on the floor given how he was still dripping wet from the shower. He didn’t care about the dizzying humidity in the room or the fact that it was making him sweat like he was in a sauna, disregarding all the effort of getting clean in the shower.

He rummaged through the bag, promptly finding the leather case with the elegant fillet knife inside. Arthur stood in front of the sink, getting the knife out. He tossed the cover aside and stopped, the hand with the knife hovering above his upturned left arm hesitantly.

It took one look in the mirror at himself to lower the blade down. Arthur closed his eyes and thought back on the events of the past week.

He started with the most minor memories, painful but not shattering.

The perfect paradise of the trip with Michael; the constant feeling of unrequited affection biting at his mind like an endless line of bee stings.

The accident, and Arthur felt the pain shooting through his body. Not overwhelming, though, just the usual extent to bring the small amount of relief, letting him breathe freely.

Michael’s furious face, _get out get out get out you suicidal freak._ Arthur inhaled sharply as the blade went deeper, the jolt of pain echoing in his collarbone.

The words of the security guard from the pub, the humiliation of it. The bloody fight in which Arthur had used this very blade to slash across someone else’s skin, into one man’s shoulder and grazing the other one’s thigh. But the fuckers had it coming anyway, so he slashes a little lighter at that memory.

Gwen and Lance, their open expressions and kind smiles. Their _pity._ Arthur dug the knife into the skin just below his elbow and opened his eyes to switch hands.

The sink was painted red with his blood flowing bountifully from the numerous cuts, dripping onto the ceramic surface. Arthur felt the edges of his vision darken and hoped he didn’t faint in the middle of this mess. Just a bit more, and then he could go and crash on the couch in the living room. Just a bit more to put his mind at rest for tonight.

He gripped the handle of the knife with his weakened left hand and continued, closing his eyes once again to shut out the reality and concentrate on the sweet relief clouding his mind.

His 'deals'. The way he had to survive in Plymouth. He had touched so many bodies of the men filthy with lust, had let them pet his head and tug on his hair and stroke his face as he had been kneeling down before them to get himself _dirty, revolting, despicable_. And no matter how many times Arthur tried to make it better, attempted to cleanse himself by letting the bad blood out to wash over his hands, drip on the ground to bury his disgrace deep in the soil, he could never get completely rid of feeling _thoroughly stained_. This time, the overcoming memories prompted his blood to trail swiftly out of resulting wounds.

 _This._ What happened less than thirty minutes ago. The shame of submitting to be hurt, the acute humiliation of giving in. Arthur briefly relished in his decision to take this one out last. If he had started with getting rid of the emotions of this event, his right hand strong and sure, he would have possibly cut through his veins in the crushing wave of devastating self-disgust.

As it was, Arthur was already feeling light-headed, his left hand shaking and numb, so despite all the reckless pressure of the blade, his wounds weren’t dangerously deep.

“Claude?!”

Arthur heard a loud pounding on the door, the sound piercing through the veil of white noise he didn’t notice had surrounded him. The knife slipped out of his slack grip and fell into the sink, the unmistakable sound of metal echoing through the room.

“Claude, this isn’t funny anymore! I’m going to take this fucking door down if you don’t answer me!” Merlin’s voice was high-pitched and ringing in Arthur’s ears.

Arthur absentmindedly wondered if Merlin had been knocking on the door for long.

“Almost done!” He yelled, realising it was a bad idea. Arthur wasn’t getting enough oxygen in his lungs, stumbling and grabbing for the sink in attempt to stay upright. He almost fell sideways in the process, blood making his hands slippery, and saw his vision completely darken for a moment.

 _Fuck_ , Arthur panicked. He couldn’t allow himself to faint, not here. He stood at the sink, gripping the surface to ground himself and breathing.

After a minute, his vision cleared enough for him to see what a mess he’d made.

The white surface was covered in red, the bloody fingerprints smudged on the edges. _Shit_. He didn’t even have any bandages to cover his arms with and stop the blood.

In a strike of luck, Arthur found a first-aid kit under the sink and managed to wrap his arms haphazardly, sitting on the floor. He wet some tissues with peroxide and secured them on his hands with gauze, his moves awkward and sluggish from pain and bloodloss.

His vision began to blur from all the effort, and Arthur took a breath, sitting back and leaning on the counter. He could hear Merlin pacing in the bedroom, breathing loudly. Arthur closed his eyes and counted to twenty, ordering himself to stay conscious.

He put the first-aid box back and carefully stood up, turning the faucet and letting the water wash all the crimson down the drain. Arthur cleaned away the spots of red from the ceramic edges, washing the last of the colour from his hands and knife.

He turned off the water, tucking his blade back into the case on the floor, put it into his bag and fished out a pair of boxers. He put them on, carefully tugging on his discarded white button-down next. His only pair of trousers was still somewhere in the bedroom.

Arthur knew that white wasn’t the best choice of colour to wear right now, but it was the only long-sleeved shirt he had with him, having thrown out the crimson one because of its ruined state.

He checked his reflection in the mirror one last time, looking out for any blood that might have gotten on his face or in his hair, gingerly lifted the bag and unlocked the door.

“What the fuck, Claude?!” Merlin was in his face in an instant, studying him closely.

Arthur felt dizzy and nauseous, he didn’t have the strength to wade through Merlin’s questions effectively right now. He was certain Merlin would demand an explanation, but it could wait till the morning. Everything could wait till the morning.

“Sorry. Had to think,” he replied, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Claude,” Merlin’s tone went from irritated to worried. “Are you okay? You look very pale.”

“Yes, Merlin, I’m just tired. Can we talk about this in the morning?” Arthur squinted at the lights that suddenly became too bright.

After a pause, Merlin nodded.

“Sure. Go to the living room, I’ll bring you some blankets and a pillow,” he walked out of the room, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder.

Arthur dragged his feet to the sofa, falling down heavily and gasping audibly when a careless motion of his arm sent a shock of pain through his body.

“You okay?!” Merlin yelled from somewhere at the other end of the flat.

Arthur tried to answer, but his body finally collapsed from the fatigue, equally exhausted from the lack of sleep, sustenance and a dramatic loss of blood.

He heard Merlin coming into the room, felt the weight of linen on his legs where Merlin dropped the blankets.

“Claude? Holy...” Arthur’s eyes flew open and he saw Merlin’s shocked expression, his gaze locked on Arthur’s arms lying limply at his sides.

Arthur glanced down and cursed. The loose bandages didn’t stop the generous red staining the sleeves of his shirt. They were covered in bright spots that grew bigger with every second.

“Claude, what did you do?” Merlin’s eyes were wide with panic, and his naturally pale face turned chalk white.

“It’s...nothing, Merlin, it’s nothing,” Arthur managed weakly, the darkness tugging at his mind.

“It’s not nothing!” Merlin’s voice was high and piercing. Arthur winced. He saw Merlin dash into the bedroom, coming out a moment later with the first-aid kit. The damned box had specks of red on it.

“Fuck, _that’s_ what you’ve been doing there?!” Merlin’s voice was a little less than a shriek. Arthur opened his eyes, even though he didn’t remember closing them, and watched Merlin carefully unbuttoning Arthur’s sleeves, lifting them up and inhaling deeply at the sight of the blood-soaked bandages.

Arthur laid silently, indifferently watching Merlin’s movements. He cut through the gauze, removing the tissues. His slender fingers worked fluently, cleaning the blood away, sterilizing the wound with alcohol that stung enough for Arthur to hiss. Merlin frowned at him, but didn’t say anything, continuing to tend the cuts.

There weren’t any particularly bad cuts on his wrists. However, on this right hand there were three deep gashes near the veins, and Merlin studied those for some time, seemingly deciding if he needed to call an ambulance. Arthur startled.

Hospital.

He didn’t think about the possibility of Merlin calling 999 after he was done with bandaging his arms tight to stop the blood.

“No hospital,” Arthur croaked.

Merlin’s head snapped up and Arthur saw that his pupils were impossibly dilated, probably with shock or terror. Arthur felt a pang in the chest at the thought of having put that look on Merlin’s face.

“What?” Merlin asked too loudly.

“Please, don’t call an ambulance,” Arthur whispered. “I’ll explain everything, just please, Merlin...” he didn’t finish, his tongue suddenly too heavy in his mouth.

“What if you die?!” Merlin shouted, his cold control slipping. “What the fuck, Claude, I can’t just let you bleed out on my sofa!” Merlin was shaking visibly, his wide terrified eyes glistening with tears.

“I’m not going to bleed out, Merlin, I’ve done this enough to know for certain,” Arthur paused and licked his lips. “And it’s Arthur.”

“What?” Merlin leaned closer to him, and Arthur looked him in the eye steadily.

“My real name is Arthur and, please, Merlin, no hospital,” he said. He felt the blood trickle down his arm and glanced at his hand. Following his gaze, so did Merlin, and hurriedly returned to bandaging Arthur’s wounds.

“You should be thankful that I’m incredibly clumsy,” muttered Merlin darkly, getting butterfly stitches out of the box and swiftly securing the gaping cuts with the tiny patches.

Arthur huffed out a laugh, but Merlin glared at him and Arthur composed his features into a serious expression.

Merlin soaked a tissue with some sort of salve and placed it on Arthur’s arms, bandaging each tightly and securing the gauze with plaster.

Taking a final look at his work, Merlin seemed to be satisfied with the results as he got up and put the box with the supplies onto the coffee table.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” he ordered, and went somewhere in the general direction of the kitchen.

Arthur sighed and looked at his dressed arms. He’d fucked up, he’d fucked up even more than he had expected. Merlin was going to kick him out the second Arthur was able to stand up. Just like Michael did, just like everyone did.

Arthur shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt taut, about to snap at any moment. He was _not_ breaking down in front of someone, not today, not ever.

“Claude?” he heard Merlin’s voice surprisingly close and opened his eyes to see him standing beside the sofa with a mug in his hand.

“Arthur,” corrected Arthur, sighing.

Merlin frowned, but sat down and motioned at the mug. “Tea with sugar. You need to drink some.”

“Why?” Arthur raised a brow in confusion.

“I don’t know!” Merlin exclaimed, exasperated. “I’m not a doctor, am I?!” He gently tugged Arthur on the shoulder, helping him to sit up.

“No, it’s fine, don’t raise your hands.” Merlin brought the cup to Arthur’s lips and Arthur took a sip, promptly sputtering.

“Hot?” asked Merlin, alarmed.

“Did you upturn a whole sugar-bowl in there?!” Arthur yelped, fighting the urge to spit out the sugary taste from his mouth.

“No, I put four spoons,” Merlin replied, defensive. “Now drink, you need the glucose. I think,” he added.

Arthur scowled at Merlin but took tiny sips of the disgusting liquid. Perhaps, if he obliged Merlin by doing everything he said, Merlin wouldn’t call an ambulance.

“So. Arthur, eh?” Merlin said quietly after a while.

Arthur nodded, looking at him with the most honest expression. He hoped Merlin would forgive him for lying after hearing the whole story. If only he could wait and let Arthur explain...

“I’m currently on the run from my father,” Arthur blurted out. He licked his lips and continued in a hurried tone. “I swear, I’m not lying. My father wanted to lock me in a hospital for being, well, for being gay, and I ran and my uncle’s friend decided it was best if I used a false name so I chose Claude and I wouldn’t have lied to you but I couldn’t tell you my real name and --”

“Arthur, stop,” Merlin interrupted him, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “It can wait till the morning, okay? Finish your tea and sleep. We will talk when you wake up.”

Merlin’s hand was a reassuring weight on his shoulder, and Arthur sagged back on the couch.

Arthur drank almost all of the overly sweetened tea when he stopped and turned his head away. “I can’t drink even one more drop of this.”

Merlin laughed lightly, looking at his pouting face. He put the mug on the table and got up, picking up the heap of blankets and gesturing for Arthur to lay down.

Merlin was putting a pillow under Arthur’s head when Arthur asked, “Why tea, though?”

Merlin straightened and smiled a little, shrugging. “On _Doctor Who_ they said that tea makes everything better.”

Arthur laughed quietly. “Of course.”

Merlin looked at him one last time, his expression serious and slightly sad. “Sleep. We’ll talk when you wake up.”

“You won’t call the ambulance?” Arthur closed his eyes, snuggling into the pillow. He was so tired, he almost didn’t care if Merlin called the hospital or the police or even his father as long as Arthur could get some sleep first.

“No.” Merlin promised.

Arthur heard him walk away, click the lightswitch, and then everything went dark. Arthur instantly fell asleep despite the blooming pain in his arms.

~

 _Sunday Morning dreamt about a moment passed,_  
_about a time I failed._  
_Sunday Morning I was staring at the clock_  
_trying to push it back._  
_Sunday Morning wished to be a kid._

Arthur woke up to the music blasting from the speakers. He groaned, remembering Merlin’s words about the audio system drilled into the ceiling, probably impossible to turn off in one particular room.

Arthur turned on his back, gasping from pain that jolted through his body. He carefully moved his arms to place them on his stomach. There was dried blood on the bandages, but not much of it.

The song ended and the next one started playing. Arthur lay quietly, listening to the words. Merlin’s choice of music in the morning was amusingly peculiar.

The first verse went by, and Arthur’s breath quickened. He wasn’t used to listening to that type of music, but he was starting to reconsider his choices.

The vocal was uneven, far from the melodic sounds of the bands Michael used to put on.

The singer’s broken voice was more like yelling than singing, but it wasn’t an unpleasant kind. More like he was pulling all the emotions out with his words, rasping into the mic. It felt like something was clawing at the insides of Arthur’s chest, making his whole body reverberate with the power of strangely poetic words.

Poetry has never been Arthur’s strong point, but he didn’t have to be a literature major to appreciate the raw beauty of the rhymes. He listened to the text closely, feeling every line searing itself into his mind with cruel accuracy.

 _Have I been losing it completely? Losing sanity? Or_  
_Has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me? I know,_  
_I knocked the table over because I watched the jar break_  
_and I’ve been trying to repair it every single stupid day_  
_But won’t the cracks still show no matter how well it’s assembled_  
_can I ever just decide to let it die and_

“Arthur, you awake?” Merlin’s face appeared in his line of view, and Arthur missed the lyrics.

“What? Yeah,” he croaked. He sighed and sat up, wincing as the movement disturbed his aching arms.

“Hurts?” sked Merlin softly. Arthur nodded. “Let me see,” said Merlin, sitting down beside him.

Arthur stared at Merlin silently, uncertain.

“I need to check for signs of infection and rebandage them,” explained Merlin. He was wearing a soft-looking brown hoodie and sweatpants and his hair stuck out at awkward angles. Arthur felt unexpectedly comfortable stretching his hands out for Merlin to hold them.

Merlin gently unwrapped the gauze and wet the tissues with peroxide to prevent the wounds from reopening as he gingerly separated the material from the skin.

He disinfected his own fingers with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol before delicately removing the butterfly stitches. However, as soon as he took them off, the deepest cuts on Arthur’s right hand started bleeding again. Merlin cursed.

He paused, then glanced at Arthur, gently taking his hands in his palms, and looked down. Arthur followed his gaze.

He had never really studied his arms. Of course, he’d known there were a lot of scars covering them, but he never really _inspected_ the patterns.

Now, it was as if he saw them for the first time.

 

 

 

 

**[This art image contains blood and graphic depictions of self-inflicted wounds. Viewer discretion is advised. Please do not click the link if you are easily triggered. Art made by my friend who expressed the wish to stay anonymous.[Link](https://40.media.tumblr.com/e2c2269bece641620bbcc4afe4e867db/tumblr_nqb7kjDa7z1qlgn92o1_540.png)]  
**

 

 The ones that caught his attention first were the giant, pale lines stretching across his left wrist and criss-crossing the skin of his right hand. Those were from the night when he had almost died in the park, from the night he had been taken to a hospital by a kind stranger.

The pink raised stripes close to the elbows -- for every desperate attempt to get through the winter, ‘staying over’ in exchange for blowjobs and self-deprecation.

The ragged short marks on the wrists, just below the hill of his palms -- the oldest ones, when he was trying to keep them small and simple.

And many, many more, underlining the contours of his arms, hiding behind the fresh cuts, barely visible silver lines and dark vast strokes.

Arthur wondered what Merlin thought about them. He watched Merlin’s face, the sombre expression like a mask, not giving anything away.

Arthur cleared his throat. Merlin startled.

“Sorry,” he blushed, letting go of his left hand in order to grab a new tissue to clean away the welling blood. He stroked Arthur’s knuckles with his other hand, still holding Arthur’s right palm.

“We need to talk about this, Arthur,” quietly said Merlin, working on cleaning and dressing Arthur’s wounds.

Arthur cleared his throat again. “Okay,” he replied curtly. The music in the background went on about a _'hole in the Earth'_.

Merlin finished his work and gathered the old bandages. He paused and looked at Arthur.

“How are you feeling?”

Arthur’s stomach grumbled loudly in reply. Merlin huffed a laugh.

“Well, that sums it up, I suppose,” he shook his head. “I made breakfast. Let’s eat first and talk later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded with a small smile. He was still a little lightheaded, but that was probably also due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything in a couple of days.

“Um, Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Could you please turn the music off?”

Merlin hummed in agreement, disappearing into the bedroom with the bloodied bandages in his hands. Arthur distantly heard the bathroom door opening, water running for a moment, then a shuffle of movements and the music stopped. Merlin re-emerged into the living room and motioned at Arthur with a nod towards the door.

He followed Merlin to the kitchen, sitting down on the bar stool at the counter. After a moment, Merlin put a full plate and a cup before him.

“What is this?” Arthur slowly raised his hand and picked up a fork. His arm was partly numb and the partly hurt like hell with every little movement.

“It’s supposed to be vegan pancakes, but I think there’s something wrong with my pan,” Merlin scowled at the innocent kitchen equipment and Arthur laughed.

“Sure, it’s all the pan’s fault,” he teased. And it was Arthur’s turn to be scowled at.

Merlin sat opposite of him, taking a bottle of syrup and generously pouring over his plateful. He raised the bottle at Arthur in silent question, and Arthur nodded. Merlin tilted the bottle and covered Arthur’s portion in what seemed like half of the bottle.

“Merlin, that’s enough!” Arthur exclaimed, looking at Merlin in disbelief, but Merlin just stuck his tongue out at him and grinned.

“There’s no such thing as too much syrup,” he retorted.

Arthur huffed and took a bite. The ‘pancakes’, in fact, presented a pile of torn pieces, some of them barely ready. However, it tasted quite good, so Arthur believed he might just dodge getting ill from them.

Merlin watched him expectantly. Arthur chewed deliberately slowly, swallowed and sipped his tea to wash away the excessive amount of syrup.

“Okay?” Merlin’s face was so hopeful that Arthur couldn’t bring himself to complain even as a joke.

“It’s good,” he smiled. Merlin grinned contently and began eating as well.

“Are you vegan?” Arthur asked, thinking back on Merlin’s words.

“Vegetarian.”

“Why?”

“Well. I don't particularly like violence-flavoured food.”

“Hm.”

“What?” Merlin’s tone was defensive.

“Nothing,” assured Arthur. “It’s just...I wouldn’t think you cared that much about hurting animals considering...” He faltered.

“Considering what?” Merlin frowned.

“You know, considering how you are...into hurting people,” Arthur mumbled, looking into his plate. When he heard nothing but silence in reply, he raised his head to look at Merlin. He was staring back at Arthur, his face drawn and his brows furrowed.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Merlin said slowly, putting his fork down. Arthur gaped at him, wondering if he managed to fuck everything up first thing in the morning.

“You know, the whole BDSM thing,” he clarified. “Isn’t it what it’s all about? Getting pleasure by hurting people?”

If Merlin could kill with a look, Arthur would probably be dead right about now, pierced by the icy glare Merlin turned on him.

“Are you serious?” he asked quietly, but it was a different tone from his previous soft voice. This one was more like the beginning chords of Rachmaninov’s _Prelude in g-moll Op. 23 No. 5_. Low and composed, only to break out into an astounding rush of sound further on. Arthur unintentionally started remembering the piece of music, his fingers twitching slightly in time with the taunting staccato of grim notes.

A heavy silence fell between them. Arthur put down his fork, following Merlin’s example. He wouldn’t be able to swallow anyway, not with his throat closing up under Merlin’s intense stare.

“Wait a moment,” Merlin broke the silence, his voice a little more than a growl. “Is that the reason you called? Is that the reason why you asked...And when it didn’t work, you resorted to your own methods of… _Fuck,_ ” Merlin put his head in his hands and inhaled deeply.

Arthur felt like throwing up. He didn’t _just_ fuck up by hurting himself and stupidly letting Merlin notice, no, he managed to hurt Merlin in the process.

“I’m sorry, Merlin, listen --”

“Just, shut the fuck up,” Merlin interrupted him and Arthur obeyed. A full minute ticked by as Arthur sat there, barely breathing, waiting for Merlin to explode and throw him out. He was about to stand up and walk out himself, not waiting for the harsh words accompanying his shameful departure, when Merlin finally raised his head and looked Arthur dead in the eye.

“Okay, first of all, no more of this shit, Arthur. No more BDSM experiments for you, and we are going to have a talk about your coping mechanisms.” Merlin’s lips were pressed into a thin line but apart from that and the furious look in the eyes, his face was absolutely, horrifyingly calm.

Arthur stared back at him, too confused to wither under his unwavering stare. The way Merlin put it, it seemed like he wasn’t intending on throwing Arthur out?..

“And no, it’s not about hurting people,” Merlin added, his eyes watery blue and sad. “In fact, it’s all about love and complete trust.” The corners of Merlin’s mouth tilted downwards, making him look disappointed rather than angry.

Arthur felt a pang of guilt for putting that expression on Merlin’s face.

“I’m sorry, Merlin, I truly am,” he said. “I didn’t think --”

“That’s right, you didn’t.” Merlin interrupted again, getting up and taking his plate to the sink. “Finish your pancakes.”

“Are you not going to finish yours?” Arthur asked, watching Merlin throw his barely touched portion down the drain.

“Not hungry.”

Merlin turned around, faltering for a second, but then apparently made up his mind and plopped back onto his seat.

“Eat, Arthur.” He motioned with his hand and Arthur obliged automatically. “And while you mouth is full and you can’t talk back like you always do,” Merlin gave him a pointed look, “I am going to explain it to you.”

He cradled his cup of tea in his palms and began talking, keeping his gaze down.

“Whatever the fuck gave you that dumb idea about BDSM, it’s wrong and completely untrue. First of all, it’s not about hurting yourself, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice was quiet and achingly sad. “And it’s also not about hurting anyone else. I mean,” Merlin licked his lips, “it’s obviously a game of pain-pleasure, but you are supposed to like it, you know, like enjoy it, not...”

Merlin paused and drew in a breath. He raised his eyes and locked his gaze with Arthur’s.

“It’s a _game,_ Arthur. Nobody is supposed to hurt for real, not to the extent of locking themselves in the bathroom to slash their skin.” He took a sip of his tea and stared into the cup for a moment, silent.

“I can’t believe you did that. Can you even imagine how if feels, to know that I have been hurting you on purpose?”

“You didn’t know that,” Arthur clenched his hands into fists. He couldn’t stand watching Merlin beat himself up because of Arthur’s stupidity. He was done eating, so he pushed the plate aside and tentatively reached to touch Merlin’s fingers wound tightly around his mug. Arthur suspected if it weren’t for the convenient mug, Merlin’s hands would be shaking.

He waited until Merlin looked at him.

“It. Was. _Not._ Your. Fault.” Arthur insisted. “Listen, you already know how I jump to assumptions, like with Monet, yeah?”

Merlin’s lips curled in a small smile. Arthur felt relieved to see this tiny sign of accommodation.

“So, okay, I was an idiot and I’m sorry. I truly am. There is nothing I can say to excuse what I’ve done, but...I really hope you’re able to forgive me,” he finished.

Merlin was silent for a minute before sighing and getting up to take Arthur’s plate to the sink. He washed the dishes silently while Arthur just waited for the reaction. When he was done, Merlin turned and leaned on the counter. “Okay, I suppose you didn’t get enough education on _How To: Not Be An Ignorant Twat 101_ in whatever woods you came from.”

Arthur chuckled.

Merlin studied his face for a moment before speaking up again. “Speaking of that. How about you tell me your story and I provide you with some actual knowledge on various subjects I’m sure you are equally arrogant about?”

Arthur nodded. He didn’t have anywhere to be, and if he got to spend some more time in the safety of Merlin’s warm comfortable flat, it was only a benefit.

“Let’s move to the sofa, then,” Merlin smiled.

~

“Um, I need to use the bathroom first,” said Arthur upon entering the living room, trying to remember where he left his duffel bag.

Merlin faltered mid-stride. “What?” The look on his face was reminiscent of a deer in headlights.

It took Arthur a second to understand what that strange face expression was about.

“Merlin, relax. I need to brush my teeth and wash my face. It’s not like I’m going to kill myself first thing in the morning,” Arthur remarked irritatedly. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but the shame of the unsaid implication pushed him to an automatic defensive position, which in his case was, unfortunately, behaving like a twat.

An uneasy silence fell in the room.

Arthur knew he had to apologise, but he was trying to place the strange sensation presently nagging at his insides. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand what it was.

However, he wasn’t that interested in finding out, he just wanted it to go _away_ , because the feeling made his eyes prickle and his throat close and he couldn’t breathe well enough. And it felt like the warmth in his stomach was gradually becoming a flame, licking at his heart, overwhelming him with something he _couldn’t understand._

Arthur felt his cheeks burn. “I’m...sorry,” he uttered. The nauseating feeling became stronger. _Maybe it’s indigestion because of those strange pancakes,_ Arthur thought briefly.

Merlin took a deep breath and went into the bedroom, coming out a moment later with Arthur’s bag in hand.

“Take everything you need. The bag stays here. Don’t lock the door. If you are in that bathroom for more than five minutes, and the door is closed, I’m breaking the door down.” Merlin ordered in a firm tone, and Arthur unintentionally shivered.

He could just imagine Merlin using that tone to order him to do something else, something more...

“Arthur?” Merlin stared at him.

“Yes, I hear you. No locking the door, leave the bag, no more than five minutes,” Arthur repeated Merlin’s words back at him.

“Good.” nodded Merlin, and _'boy'_   was sort of left hanging in the air between them. Merlin chuckled, handing the bag to Arthur.

“As you will learn soon, BDSM is actually _a lot_ about trust,” a mischievous smirk was playing on Merlin’s lips, and Arthur tried to concentrate on rummaging through his bag and getting all the things he might need and not on his blood rushing South, powered by Merlin’s words and harsh orders and the way his muscles defined when he crossed his strong arms on his chest.

~  
While Arthur was in the bathroom, Merlin put away the blankets and the pillow from the sofa.

They sat down, facing each other, and Arthur began telling his life story to Merlin. He started at the beginning, explained the immense power his father held over people, his money and connections providing him with any information he requested. Arthur told Merlin in detail about his escape, his time with Alice, fourteen months he had spent in Penzance. He relived all the events all over again simultaneously feeling like it had happened a long, long time ago and probably with someone else.

As he was narrating the story, Arthur was surprised by the sheer amount of luck he seemed to have. Something always happened to prevent him from falling down completely, giving him the strength to pick himself up and continue going.

“It’s not luck, Arthur,” Merlin piped in in reply to Arthur’s comment. “It’s called ‘strength of character’.”

“Yeah, more like ‘an art of survival’,” Arthur chuckled darkly.

Merlin scowled at him, but let him continue.

When Arthur got to the part where Michael invited him to stay with him, Merlin interrupted.

“Just like that? He must be an incredibly good person,” he raised his eyebrows.

“Well, or an incredibly calculating one,” Arthur muttered. “See, when I was telling him what I’m telling you now sans the details, I mentioned that I was supposed to inherit a large amount of money when I turn twenty-one. It’s what my mum left for me,” he explained, the familiar melancholy at the memory of his mother washing over him.

The thought of Michael merely being after his money had always been there at the back of Arthur’s mind, ever since he agreed to run with Michael to London. But he pushed it away insistently, assuring himself he was being paranoid and ungrateful.

When he described Michael’s reaction to the “accident”, Merlin frowned and touched Arthur’s hands.

“What a shitfaced wankering arsehole,” he said quietly, but Arthur wasn’t fooled by his soft tone. It appeared Merlin didn’t raise his voice when he was truly angry; on the contrary, he was more likely to lower it to a dangerously composed note. “I take my words about him being a good person back. You don’t deserve what he’s done to you. Your suicide attempt was not a valid reason for him to turn away from you.”

“It was an accident, Merlin,” Arthur argued.

“Was it?” Merlin’s tone was gentle, and his fingers curled around Arthur’s palms tenderly. His expression was honest and open, clear blue eyes filled with nothing but kind sympathy. Arthur averted his gaze, the strange unknown feeling from before returning full force.

He spoke after a moment, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I didn’t want to kill myself. I wasn’t going to. I mean, I was so happy, just perfectly happy. I simply wanted to stay like that forever. I wasn’t _trying_ to drown.”

He fell silent, looking anywhere but at Merlin. Suddenly, he felt Merlin’s body against his, strong hands gathering him in a secure hold.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin whispered into his ear. “It’s okay. He was a twat anyway, so it’s best that you learnt it sooner rather than later. The hard way, probably, but you learnt it just in time to get away from his overbearing douchiness.”

Arthur laughed weakly. “How is it that one moment you talk like some sophisticated artsy type and the next you express things in the clumsiest way possible?”

Merlin drew back to look at him with a wicked smile. “I _am_ a sophisticated artsy type.”

Arthur snorted. “So élite that you can’t make simple pancakes for yourself?”

Merlin huffed indignantly. “The pan is shite and I’d like to see you try!”

“Oh, I bet I can cook better than you,” Arthur teased.

“It’s _on_. The dinner is your responsibility.” Merlin declared.

Arthur laughed before getting serious again to finish his story. “Yeah so, then I got into a fight on the streets. Some gits must have followed me from the pub I’d been to, considering how they called me a...well, whore.”

Arthur had told Merlin about his ways of dealing with the lack of a roof over his head so it wasn’t a secret anymore, but it felt so much more real if said out loud. Arthur desperately hoped Merlin would somehow miss the implications of sleeping with strangers in exchange for something.

“I was lucky to get out with only a few bruises --” Arthur stopped abruptly when Merlin brought his hand up to touch Arthur’s cheek.

“This one is one of them?” Merlin asked softly.

“Yes.” Arthur breathed, startled by the sensation of Merlin’s fingertips stroking the side of his face. After a moment, Merlin dropped his hand, and Arthur shook his head to concentrate on what he was saying. He cleared his suddenly closed throat and resumed talking.

“Anyway, I wounded both of them. Nothing serious, just a couple of scratches to distract their attention. There was blood, though. And then I was running as fast as I could. I hadn’t eaten or slept for some time then, so everything was getting blurry which was the reason why I didn’t notice Gwen opening the car door until it was too late. I maneuvered to refrain from crashing into the door though and bumped into the bus stop instead. Face-planted, more like,” Arthur huffed a laugh to enlighten the situation.

Judging by Merlin’s worried face, it didn’t work.

Arthur got as far as describing their coffee meeting at the café the previous day when Merlin asked out of the blue, his eyes wide.

“Wait, you mean, _the_ Gwen and Lance? As in Gwen and Lance from _Jean D’Arc_?!”

Arthur laughed. “Well, at least now I know what you are doing when you are not painting or having wild sex,” he mused.

Merlin ignored that comment, obviously waiting for Arthur to confirm.

“Yes, _Mer_ lin _,_ exact same Gwen and Lance.”

Arthur flinched when Merlin suddenly jumped up and down, grinning like a loon. He guessed the undisguised questions were written across his face because Merlin explained in exasperated tone as if Arthur didn’t understand something very simple.

“It’s just. Gwen and Lance, together on a secret trip? Oh my God, they are totally fucking.”

“Merlin!” Arthur winced, “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin replied, not appearing to be sorry at all, “but you can’t deny that. It’s so obvious, I mean have you _seen_ the way he is looking at her? It’s like a _constant_ thing, oh God. Ah, he must think he’s being so subtle,” Merlin snorted.

“Merlin, it’s my friends you are talking about!” Arthur wasn’t sure ‘friends’ was quite the word to use in that case, but they’d been kind to him and he felt obligated to defend their honour.

“Okay, okay,” Merlin lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just so sweet, Lance’s undisguised affection for Gwen, and I hoped he had enough courage to do something about it. Which, apparently, he does.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” muttered Arthur. “It’s even worse up close. It’s like nobody but Gwen exists and he looks a lot like...like a lovesick teenager.”

Merlin’s responding grin was blinding. “I knew it!” He was way too happy about it, and Arthur chuckled at the thought of Merlin actually being a secret fanboy.

“Right, so it was yesterday morning. Then you called me and, well,” Arthur jokingly raised an eyebrow, “here I am.”

“Here you are,” echoed Merlin, sobering up and dropping his gaze to Arthur’s bandaged hands.

Arthur stared at his hands as well. He didn’t need to be a psychic to know what Merlin must be thinking.

“Listen, Merlin,” Arthur began quietly. “I am not your responsibility and you don’t owe me anything. I will leave as soon as you want me to, just say a word. It’s not like I expect you to do anything just because you know the whole story -- it was only fair that I told you after my little freak out --”

“It wasn’t ‘a little freak out’.” Merlin interrupted in the matching low voice.

“Either way. It’s not your fault I’m… _this_.” Arthur stopped breathing for a second, trying to slow down his rapid heartbeat. Any minute now, Merlin would look him in the eye and nod, and Arthur would have to leave with nowhere to go.

“What?” Merlin frowned. It took Arthur a moment to understand what he meant.

“Well, this, a lost cause, hopeless and fucked-up and...pathetic,” by the last word, his voice was a barely audible whisper.

Merlin looked at him with something like panic in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but only gulped air like a fish. Finally, Merlin seemed to give up on whatever he was trying to say, pressing his lips tight and glancing at the window behind him.

“Come on,” he called, getting up and going to sit on the windowsill.

Arthur was utterly confused by Merlin’s reaction, but followed him and sat on the wide wooden surface that was comfortably heated. There were small decorative pillows scattered around. Arthur pushed a couple of them against the wall and leaned back, looking at Merlin sitting opposite of him.

“Look at the sky, Arthur,” Merlin finally said, seemingly studying his face.

Arthur obliged, still not sure what the whole thing was about.

“What do you see?”

“That you need to clean the windows?”

“Arthur!”

“All right! Um, I see...overcast skies?” Arthur chanced a look at Merlin, not particularly knowing what it was that Merlin wanted to hear.

“Good,” Merlin seemed satisfied with his answer. “Now, tell me, what colours do you think I’d need to use to paint the sky and the clouds?”

Arthur huffed in exasperation. He didn’t understand what was going on and he definitely didn’t like being laughed at. Although, Merlin didn’t look like he was mocking him.

“I don’t know,” Arthur shrugged and tilted his head, staring at the clouds. “Black, grey...Dark grey, I guess.”

A gentle smile touched Merlin’s lips. It wasn’t a condescending one, it wasn’t a mocking one. It was the same smile Arthur recalled on Merlin’s face when he was talking about painting, back when they first met on the train.

“Not really. I’d need a lot of white, actually. I would need black, too, but to create it, I’d have to mix the vibrant colours on my palette. You are not allowed to use a black tube paint in art classes, you know.”

“So...What are you saying?” Arthur intuitively knew that Merlin wasn’t just asking his advice on the colour scheme. He was obviously going for some Deep Meaning. Arthur took a wild guess. “That no matter how many bright colours there are, they all essentially mix into blackness?”

“ _No_ , I’m saying there’s a lot of light in every darkness. It’s the matter of perspective.” Merlin gazed at the sky, his face almost radiant, illuminated by some inner glow. “See, you look at the sky and notice the dark shadows, yeah? And think, oh, those are some gloomy shades. But when I look up, I see...” Merlin paused and inhaled, as if he was trying to catch the piercing crisp scent of the cold autumn air.

“I see all the subtle specks of light blue, heavier notches of violet, and I think of the candy red and indigo I’ll need to mix those colours into existence. The outline - it’s absolutely white. You know what’s the first thing they teach you in the basic art class?”

Arthur shook his head despite guessing that was a rhetorical question.

“No matter how dark the object is, there’s always a light to it. Always. On the very edge, where you can only think of black, there’s the vital subtle light hidden just on the outline of it. It makes the object three-dimensional, makes it real. There is no such thing as absolute darkness. Now, look at the sky again and try looking from my perspective. Notice all the white.” Merlin prompted.

Arthur bit his lip in doubt, but obliged. He raised his eyes at the clouds and couldn’t suppress a soft gasp. He briefly thought Merlin must have used some sort of magic while he was talking, distracting Arthur from the scenery to change the colours, although Arthur knew that was impossible.

Where previously he saw black lines and shadows enveloping the tiny azure patches, now were vast brush strokes of blinding whiteness, and everywhere he looked, a bright absence of black enveloped the space, flourishing and shaping the charcoal scheme. He saw so much of this new _obvious_ light, it started to overwhelm him. At some point, Arthur stopped seeing the darkness of the skies at all, only noticing how cheerful the colours mixed into one another, noticing all the blues and reds and yellows it took to create the pattern.

He must have gaped at the sight, because he heard Merlin chuckle and say, “Close your mouth, Arthur. It’s brilliant, right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur exhaled, and tore his eyes from the luminous clouds. “Wow.”

Merlin grinned, his eyes wide and gleaming.

“That’s what I’m talking about! It’s easy to see the obvious -- the dark. There’s so much of it, it seems like everything there is is black. But, Arthur, if you try and look closely, you will also see all the endless brightness, the beauty that is there all the time. It’s not gone, it’s there, you just need to _want_ to see it.”

Merlin stopped talking, glancing down at his hands and back at Arthur, locking gazes with him.

“Arthur, you are not lost, you are not hopeless and you are not pathetic.” He said firmly. “You are incredibly strong and there is so much light inside you. You just need to see it.” Merlin paused. “You know, I actually have a theory.” A small smile crept onto Merlin’s lips, his expression turning shy.

“Yeah?” Arthur tilted his head, letting his curiosity show.

Merlin licked his lips. When he started explaining, his defined hands started flying around in wild gesticulations.

“I think...Every one of us has these numberless colours inside, yeah? Like, the essential three ones blending to create the complementary, and those infusing to produce more, infinitely more, and sometimes...Sometimes it’s very hard to keep them separated, not let it all mingle into one deep black.” Merlin paused to take a breath.

“Sometimes, people have such a rich colour wheel, it becomes overwhelming, everything starts merging into black and then...They need help to separate the colours again, to see how bright and cheerful and vibrant it can be inside. Black is not a colour, Arthur, it’s the absence of colour.”

Merlin quieted and silently stared at Arthur, obviously waiting for a reaction.

Arthur just breathed steadily, the already familiar heavy feeling making his chest ache.

“So how do you...separate the colours, so to speak?” He asked after a silent minute.

“You just add the light until it’s white again. And you start anew. It won’t be a perfect white but it doesn’t really matter. It will simply give everything a silvery hint, which is kind of fascinating.”

Merlin quirked a smile at Arthur.

“An interesting theory you have there, Merlin,” Arthur shook his head in amusement. “Definitely something to think about.”

“Definitely,” echoed Merlin, his smile growing wider.

“So...” Arthur drawled, not sure about the way to bring up the subject he wanted Merlin to talk about. “Um...You were going to tell me a thing or two about BDSM?” _‘Real smooth, Arthur,’_ he thought at himself, wincing.

Merlin laughed. “Right, yeah, let’s plant some actual knowledge in that blond head of yours.”

Arthur opened his mouth, about to protest against the “blond” jokes that were frankly quite _offensive_ and not true when Merlin giggled wickedly at his own _hilarity._

Arthur pressed his lips into a tight line to stop from smiling. It almost worked.

Merlin was truly a wonder. One minute, he was all wise and insightful, the next - giggling like a total dork at his own dumb joke.

“All right, let’s move back to the sofa,” Merlin said, getting up.

“What, is your little bottom sore?” Arthur teased.

Merlin comically glared at him over his shoulder, moving to the cozy seat. Arthur followed him. Once again, they were facing each other. Merlin slumped down, leaning on the back of the couch and laying his head down, looking at Arthur lazily through half-lidded eyes.

“Okay so, I suppose BDSM holds different meanings to each and everyone,” he began in a conversational tone. “But personally, to me, it’s all about complete love and trust."

Arthur raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Well, trust I can get, I mean you obviously have to trust someone not to murder you while you are blindfolded or something, but love?..” He licked his lips. He noticed Merlin tracing the movement with his eyes. They stayed focused on Arthur’s lips as Merlin explained.

“Love in its purest form, Arthur.” Fortunately, Merlin raised his gaze to stare Arthur in the eye again, because otherwise Arthur wouldn’t be quite able to concentrate on what he was saying. Merlin’s relaxed posture, his leisurely voice and the expression of something akin to bliss on his face made Arthur’s skin prickle, bringing back memories of Merlin’s sated body against his.

Arthur cleared his throat and fidgeted under Merlin’s scrutiny, clear blue eyes piercing through the calm façade Arthur tried to maintain. It felt like Merlin was seeing straight into his soul.

Finally, Merlin spoke after a long minute of silence.

“You know that feeling of loving somebody so much, you feel like you could burst? It’s like...a volcano inside you, all that scalding lava burning you from the inside.”

Arthur nodded, although he didn’t understand. His love for Michael -- if it was love, Arthur wasn’t really sure anymore -- was calm and quiet, and it didn’t feel at all like what Merlin was describing.

“Well...Most people try to control it, subside it. They push it away, afraid it might break them and stay inside their safe cocoon, have gentle vanilla sex and turn around to sleep on their respective sides of the bed.”

Arthur wanted to argue, because Merlin made it sound like hurting somebody or enjoying being hurt was the only true way of being affectionate towards somebody. Merlin must have seen it on his face, because he raised his palm in a “stop” sign.

“Hang on, let me finish. I’m just saying, love is like, like, a flame, yeah? But when you don’t blow up the flame, so to speak, it eventually quiets down to a boring smolder. And it’s scary, too, to let the fire blaze, feeling it licking inside. That’s what I like about BDSM, the sharp edge of falling into raw devotion, feeling how it hurts, _letting it_ hurt _.”_

Arthur breath quicken for some unknown reason, and he opened his mouth slightly, trying to conceal the rushing _presto_ of it.

“I don’t think love is gentle,” Merlin continued. “I believe it to be rather cruel and destructively powerful. I mean, it’s such a compelling force, people kill for love, die for love. And it’s fucking terrifying. You can love someone to the depths of your soul, but there no guarantee they won’t leave you, there’s not even a physical proof they love you back with the same intensity, or...at all.” Merlin’s face was slowly becoming flushed, his eyes no longer slits, but wide and a little maniacal in his passion. He sat up straighter.

“So it’s an essential instinct to mark them, make them yours, make sure they don’t go away. But no matter how hard you bite and how desperately you claw at them, willing them to stay forever, there’s no promise to it.”

Merlin’s voice became reverent, his hands flailing wildly. He was so enticing in his eagerness to make Arthur _understand_ that he unconsciously leaned closer to Arthur.

Arthur could feel the heat of Merlin’s body touching him, seeping the words into his skin.

“Loving somebody is like placing a gun into their hand, trusting them not to pull the trigger. It’s like standing on the wooden deck with a rope around your neck, your beloved executioner holding absolute power over you. But the ever-present fear is there, humming through your body, and the first instinct is to fight, to rip them apart, sink your teeth into their throat. You want to hurt them, you want them to hurt _you_ , more than the fear hurts you, so the pain could also become theirs. So every inch of your essence is entirely theirs.”

Merlin paused, his ragged breath being the only thing Arthur could hear in the room apart from his own erratic heartbeat. Just listening to Merlin made that uncomfortable hot feeling buzz vibrations through his whole body, making him shake.

He had given up on placing it, he just wanted it to stop because it felt dangerous, it felt a little like hanging on his hands from the end of a cliff. It felt like it could consume him whole, and Arthur _hated_ it, hated feeling absolutely out of control.

He took a shuddering breath, and Merlin blinked, as if waking up from the feverish trance his monologue put him into. He drew back, and the delicious heat of his skin disappeared.

“So, as I was saying,” Merlin took a deep breath, probably trying to calm himself down. “The uncertainty of giving the power over yourself to somebody, it requires an immense amount of trust, and it hurts. So you try to take the pain to the next level, let it sting and flare and overcome you, until you are at the point of bliss and the burning finally subsides, at least for some time.” Merlin fell silent for a moment.

“And the bruises and scratch marks, the ache you feel with every move, it reminds you constantly of the one who got under your skin. It makes you feel their presence everywhere you go, carrying a part of them on you around at all times. You feel safe, you feel powerful and fierce in your love. It’s absolutely freeing.”

Arthur’s fingertips were sweaty. He wiped them subtly on the hem of his shirt.

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain practising BDSM with people you barely know, does it?” He asked, swallowing to make his voice sound less raspy.

Merlin smiled softly.

“No, but the idea is the same. I think it might be even more of a sign of unconditional love, actually. You don’t know this person, but you care for them, drag them to pleasure through pain only to show them a kind affection afterwards. The aftercare is my favourite part, actually,” Merlin’s lips stretched in a full-blown grin, baring his white teeth.

Arthur immediately recalled the sensations of those teeth biting at his neck. A shiver ran down his spine. He hoped the shirt was long enough to cover the half-hardness in his boxers.

“Sorry,” he said, looking into the luminous blue of Merlin’s eyes. “For, you know...”

“Being an ignorant twat who jumps to assumptions and judges everything based on own misconceptions?” Merlin smirked, but there was no heat to it.

“Yeah,” Arthur sighed. “That.”

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin gave him a reassuring smile, reaching for his hand. “As long as you are willing to learn and change your views,” he added.

Arthur nodded, glancing at their touching hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin doing the same, and he knew they both were looking at the bandages on his hands.

It was all well and good, chatting with Merlin about colours and BDSM, but Arthur had to figure out what to do next. Where to go, how to survive the upcoming time left.

“It’s nine months, yeah?” Merlin inquired quietly.

“Roughly, yes.”

“Well...” Merlin took a deep breath. “I suppose we could arrange something. The place is big enough for both of us, and my friend isn’t coming back until next year anyway.”

“Merlin,” Arthur looked up at him incredulously. “Are you suggesting I stay here?”

“Yeah, I mean there’s a spare room. I’ve been using it for some space to stack my stuff, canvases and all --”

“Oh, and here I was, wondering where all the mess went,” Arthur muttered, interrupting him.

Merlin scowled, and Arthur chortled at his expression.

“Anyway, we can set up a bed there and it’ll be a proper bedroom for you,” he chirped away.

“Merlin.” Arthur waited until Merlin looked at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Why...” He faltered. He didn’t know what question to ask first.

_Why are you being so good to me? Why are you willing to endure my presence for nine months? Why are you so kind to me? Why do you think I deserve this? Why haven’t you thrown me out yet? Whywhywhy --_

“You’re a good person, Arthur,” Merlin cut off the litany of questions rummaging through Arthur’s mind. “What happened to you was unfair. People using you was unfair. You were forced out of your home, the place you were supposed to feel safe. The treatment you got so far...” He shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t think I’d be able to go through what you have and remain human.”

Merlin looked uncertain for a moment, then gulped a breath and rushed at Arthur, straddling him and enveloping him in a warm hug with his whole body. He pressed his face into the crook of his neck and Arthur slowly raised his aching hands to Merlin’s back.

He was wrong-footed, not sure what he was supposed to do.

“I’m so sorry it happened to you, Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “You are admirable, Jesus, if I’d known back then, I would have done something --”

“Merlin, it wasn’t your fault!” Arthur exclaimed in disbelief. He was at a loss, he didn’t understand why Merlin seemed to be blaming himself or why he was clinging to Arthur’s body. Arthur couldn’t fathom what to do with all these emotions Merlin was feeling _at_ him.

“Anyway,” Merlin drew back a little, pressing his weight into Arthur’s thighs. Arthur really hoped his cock wouldn’t decide it was _time for having fun._

“I insist that you stay with me until your birthday. When is it, by the way?”

“Twenty-fourth of July,” Arthur replied automatically.

“Leo,” Merlin smirked. “I could have guessed. You certainly have the mane for it,” he giggled, ruffling Arthur’s hair.

Arthur huffed.

“I only have one condition,” Merlin became serious.

For a split second, Arthur a ridiculous thought passed through his mind. Was Merlin going to demand Arthur participate in some wicked BDSM activities? Sign a contract to become Merlin’s slave for nine months? Wear a collar?

“You don’t owe me anything. I don’t want to hear about any payback once you get the money, and I certainly oppose any sort of _favours_ you might think I expect you to provide.”

Merlin didn’t specify, but they both knew what kind of _favours_ he meant.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue. While he humoured the thought of actually staying with Merlin, he absolutely counted on paying him in cash as soon as he could access the bank account.

He still intended to send a generous sum to Michael despite the man's hostile behaviour. After all, Arthur did spend a lot of time and resources at Michael’s place. A Pendragon always paid his debts.

“I don’t want to hear it, Arthur,” Merlin warned. “Either you accept my offer and sign the _Terms and Conditions --”_

“I’ll be going, then.” Arthur made a move to push Merlin off his lap. No matter how bad things were, he still refused to be a charity case. He had managed to survive on his own for this long, he’d figure something out once again.

“Umph, fine!” Merlin threw his hands in the air, pressing himself down to lock Arthur in place. Arthur stilled, but only because one more hazardous movement -- and the unfortunate bulge in his pants might graze Merlin’s inner thigh.

“If you _have_ to be so bloody insufferable, I suppose we could make a deal,” Merlin breathed loudly in exasperation.

Arthur amusingly wondered why Merlin seemed to be more perturbed by Arthur’s refusal to stay than Arthur was anxious about choosing nowhere to go over the comfort of Merlin’s convenient offer.

Merlin glanced around the room, supposedly in search of something Arthur could be useful doing. He looked at the far end of the room over his shoulder and turned to Arthur with a smirk.

“Right, I will only let you stay if you _promise_ to play the piano for me...Whenever I want.” He concluded.

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed in defeat.

“But the money part stays, Arthur.” Merlin’s expression was absolutely serious, his voice steady, without a hint of discussion. “I’m not accepting any money from you. Neither of us is going to be the whore in this deal, understood?”

His eyes bored into Arthur’s until Arthur nodded, catching the deeper meaning behind Merlin’s words.

Suddenly, he felt relieved that Merlin had phrased it like that. He was grateful Merlin didn’t judge him, and although some part of him was screeching about his pride being hurt by the _condescending_ deal, Arthur ignored it. He had pushed his luck enough times already. Maybe it was time he finally settled and accepted the offered help.

“Great,” Merlin breathed, and wrapped his arms around Arthur once again in a tight embrace. Gradually, Arthur relaxed against his body, closing his eyes and breathing in Merlin’s comforting scent.

They stayed like that for some time. At some point, Arthur realised Merlin’s breath was calm and too slow. The dork had fallen asleep on his shoulder, his hot wet breath tickling Arthur’s neck.

Arthur looked at his bandaged hands. Merlin didn’t bring up the subject, but Arthur knew this had to be the last time he took a knife to his skin.

He glanced at the piano in the corner of the room and hoped he could go back to coping with everything by venting his raw emotions through pounding at the wide whites and graceful flats of the keyboard.

At some point he, too, drifted into a peaceful sleep, Merlin’s pliant body around him like a giant soft panda. Arthur chuckled at the comparison before he dozed off.

~  
Arthur awakened because his neck had stiffened uncomfortably. Merlin was still slumped against him, having shifted in his sleep, now pressed up against Arthur’s side. His body was a heavy weight on Arthur’s injured hand, trapped and hurting under it.

Arthur carefully extracted himself from Merlin, trying not to wake him up but as soon as he stood up, he saw Merlin cracking his eyes open, blinking slowly.

“Morning,” Arthur smirked.

“Mhhng,” mumbled Merlin, scratching the side of his face. He stretched languidly and yawned. “What time is it?”

“How should I know? I have no idea where the clock is.”

Merlin scowled at him, and Arthur couldn’t suppress a low chortle bubbling up from his chest. Merlin was a sight to behold: ruffled from sleep, warm and soft-looking, his eyes tinted with dissipating dreams. He looked nothing like the cheeky, _bossy_ dork Arthur had already got used to seeing. The possibility of discovering -- exploring -- this new, prior unknown side of Merlin was enticing.

“Are you hungry?” Arthur asked.

“Is that a hint that you want to cook me dinner?” Merlin’s mischievous grin was in place. He had completely woken up.

“No,” Arthur stressed. “It’s a hint that I want _you_ to cook _us_ dinner.” Arthur paused, hoping he wasn’t pushing Merlin’s hospitality already. “My arms kind of hurt when I move them,” he added quietly, waving his bandaged hands awkwardly to illustrate his point.

“Oh.” Merlin got up and nodded hastily. “Yeah, sure.”

However, after glancing longingly in the general direction of the kitchen, Merlin suggested they order a pizza, half-vegetarian for Merlin and half-meaty for Arthur.

While they were waiting for their food to be delivered, Merlin called and ordered a bed to be brought to the flat the next day. It was almost six o’clock, and there was no way Arthur was going to let him pay for a special delivery. He could manage perfectly well sleeping on the sofa for one more night.

When the pizza arrived, they settled in front of the TV, Merlin bringing out his complete series one and series two DVD’s of _Joan D’Arc_ with extended cast commentary and bloopers as a bonus. Arthur gave him a _look,_ but Merlin just laughed it off. “Oh come on, Arthur, I _know_ you are involved in the show probably more than I am.”

Arthur only grunted in response, secretly relishing in the fact that _hey, he got to see all the additional DVD extras._

They dimmed the lights and spent the evening indulging themselves in the show, silent at first, until Merlin started making small comments on what was happening in the episode. It escalated to them arguing about characterisation and plot twists, which led to a discussion of medieval fashion and views, and somehow they ended up talking about the soundtracks to the series, completely dismissing the running show itself. They both had seen it already, so none of them cared.

At some point, the scene where Joan and King Charles were having a talk about his future as the true King of France interrupted their boisterous talking. They turned to the screen, watching silently as Joan was telling Charles about his destined rule with tears in her eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed Merlin going all bleary-eyed, unconsciously mouthing the lines along with Joan. Arthur shifted in his seat and averted his eyes back to the screen, not wanting to sneak glances at Merlin when he looked so vulnerable and open. Somehow, it seemed low and unfair.

But the show wasn’t helping. Presently, Gwen and Lance -- no, _Joan and King Charles_ were staring at each other with such utter love in their eyes, it made Arthur feel like an intruder.

The violins flared out of the sound system, almost intense enough to overlay Gwen’s -- _Joan’s_ \-- voice as she was saying,

_“Do not doubt or fear, my lord, for You are as noble as I have dreamed you to be, as brave as God requires you to be. I shall remain at your side no matter how long the path is. I shall walk a thousand steps even if I have to wear my legs down to my knees for you!” She paused and chanced a forlorn look at Charles, her shaky breath moving her lips to tremble slightly as she begged. “I shall only last a year! Take the good of me, gentle Prince, as long as it is possible.”_

Merlin hiccuped, and when Arthur looked at him, he saw Merlin subtly rubbing his eyes. When he took his hand away, Arthur noticed faint tracks of tears reflecting the blue-ish TV light on Merlin’s cheeks .

Arthur didn’t quite know what to do. It wasn’t a common practice in the Pendragon household to have _feelings_ in front of other people because of some television drama. Was he supposed to pat Merlin on the back? Cry with him? Say ‘it’s okay’? Pretend it wasn’t happening?

In the end, Arthur settled on awkwardly clearing his throat before pointing at the screen and muttering, “You know, half the tragic effect depends solely on the music. If you were, say, to substitute violins and the wistful chorus for Bach’s grandiose piece, it wouldn’t have as much influence as it does.”

Merlin sniffled in reply.

“In fact, classical music is the most powerful kind of art,” Arthur babbled on. “I personally think it’s the most enigmatic one. You can’t relate to lyrics and there are no dumb beats that kind of echo your heartbeat so it makes you think you can feel the music. All that’s left in classical music is your senses, and it sort of reaches inside you and pulls out something deep and inexplicable, and that is why a lot of people don’t actually like classical music. It confuses them because they --”

“Arthur?” Merlin interrupted, but his voice came out high-pitched, more like a broken squeak.

“Yes?”

“Stop talking and hug me.” Merlin didn’t say that in his “orderly” manner, more like in this wet with tears tone, muffled with trying to contain wayward sobs.

Arthur obliged, relieved he finally knew the proper etiquette to stick to. He tugged Merlin close, holding him securely in his hands. Merlin laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder and continued watching quietly, only his ragged breath disturbing the peaceful movie night.

Arthur zoned out of the episode, thinking about the fact that this was his first movie night.

Michael didn’t really hang out with him. They existed in the same area, but they never had more than a small talk once a day or probably a drink on weekends. More often than not, Michael would go out and leave Arthur to himself. _“You can’t exactly go out anyway, yeah, Claude? I mean, what if somebody recognizes you...”_ was his usual answer to Arthur’s hopeful looks every time Michael started to get ready for the night out.

Arthur could remember those times with Morgana when they were little, watching cartoons and Disney movies together, but that was so long ago that sometimes, it seemed unreal.

Sometimes, his whole life seemed unreal to him, as if he was drifting, hanging in limbo with no actual purpose and no plan and _okay, no, stop those thoughts right there._

In order to ground himself from the thoughts flooding his mind, Arthur tried to concentrate on the _now._ On Merlin’s solid body against him. He squeezed Merlin’s bicep to feel the flesh give a little until he felt defined muscles beneath it. Wow, Merlin’s arms were _strong._ Of course, Arthur had already known that, but it was strangely comforting to touch them, feeling the muscles flex a little every time Merlin shifted his hand.

Arthur concentrated on Merlin’s breathing. It was shallow and rapid at first, at times stopping altogether, but gradually it slowed down to rhyme with the steady rhythm Arthur had been tracing along Merlin’s palm with his thumb. At some point, Arthur’s left hand dropped from where he was blanketing Merlin across the chest, locking him in a tight embrace, to Merlin’s clenched fingers. Arthur coerced his hand open, slowly, gently rubbing zig-zag lines into his skin.

Arthur inhaled deeply, _absolutely not_ trying to take in as much of Merlin’s scent as he could to decypher it.

He chuckled lightly when he caught the faintest notes of paint. He had thought it was an exaggeration when someone mentioned how artists smelled of paint most of the time. Apparently, not. Perhaps it was like an acquired quirk, something you couldn’t go without if you planned on becoming an artist.

Mixed in was the curious smell of butter -- probably an aftermath of Merlin’s morning cooking experiments still lingering in his hair. It was only a sweet hint, barely there. Arthur thought he could also taste a vanilla shadow somewhere in that hint.

The strongest was the natural scent of Merlin’s skin. His hair smelled curiously like apples, but his skin was --

“Arthur.” Merlin quiet voice didn’t quite have the questioning tilt to it. “Are you...sniffing me?”

“No!” Arthur’s reply was too loud and too hurried.

Merlin laughed and craned his head back to look at Arthur’s face. His eyes were two crescents upside down, clear and shiny after crying.

“You are a creep, Arthur,” Merlin stated delightfully.

Arthur scoffed, trying to come up with a comeback but he ended up retorting a lame “Am not!” on reflex.

There was a pause and a silent moment when Arthur realised their faces were inches apart. Merlin’s smile slowly disappeared, leaving his eyes wide and staring right into Arthur’s. Arthur wouldn’t mind this being his first kiss. In fact, it would be nothing short of perfect.

His heart pounding in his chest and his breathing pattern uneven, Arthur opened his mouth to silence his embarrassingly audible breath and saw Merlin’s eyes dart lower, licking his own lips.

The episode was still playing in the background but Arthur didn’t hear it, fully focused on not fucking up his first proper kiss.

He locked gazes with Merlin, the gleaming blue of his eyes overwhelming Arthur every time and bit his lip. After a moment, Arthur started leaning forward, anticipating the feeling of Merlin’s plump --

“I think it’s time we call it a night,” Merlin practically bolted upright, knocking Arthur on the jaw in the process.

“Ow!” Arthur didn’t know if that was regarding his hurt jaw or his hurt ego.

“Sorry, I really didn’t mean to, um,” Merlin awkwardly shuffled to the TV, switching it off, put the DVD back in its case and stood in front of Arthur, sort of twitching with painful indecisiveness of _what to do next._

“I know where the blankets are, Merlin,” said Arthur, suddenly tired. Today would have been too exhausting for anyone but it was especially so for Arthur with his low emotional tolerance. There was only so much rejection he could take in the course of seventy-two hours. “You can go to sleep if you want to.”

Merlin seemed unsure for a second, lingering and chewing on his lip, but then nodded, frowning, and quickly absconded the hell out of the room.

Arthur sighed, getting up to get the linen. What the fuck had just happened?

He tried not to think about it, intending to go to sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

However, the thoughts kept racing in his mind, at it took just a couple of innocent _accidental_ brushes of his bandaged wounds against the rough pattern of the sofa for the burning pain to flash up from his arms to his brain. It effectively froze the thinking process, bringing a peaceful relief which settled as deep in Arthur’s stomach as the dull ache echoed through his body, lulling his frazzled nerves numb as he drifted off to sleep.

~  
Through the fog of slumber, Arthur thought he heard words floating to his ears and intertwining with his mindless dreams.

_The trouble is...Love is like a sin my loveliest...Is that the devil in your veins...Or just some kind of symphony...In your smile that always sets the sun..._

The mellifluous sounds created wonderful pictures behind Arthur’s close lids. He dreamed of beautiful sun-lit scenery, Gustav Mahler himself playing the grand piano on the hill above a seashore. Arthur couldn’t hear the music clearly, so he tried to get closer. He was near the piano when Mr. Mahler stopped playing, turned to him and said _, “I am immensely content with Serge Ollive’s transcriptions for piano solo that respectful young man performed of my First Symphony in D-major. You should learn it, too, Arthur, it will do you good.”_ Arthur nodded in response to Gustav Mahler, racking his brain on what he could play to show off --

_Suddenly I stop but I know it's too late I'm lost in a forest all alone._

The calm seaside disappeared along with master Mahler and his piano. Arthur was in the deep forest, surrounded by trees. He took a look around, noting the trees looked suspiciously like those in the forest near his school. He heard heavy footsteps coming closer to him.

The steps sounded like his father’s.

Arthur started running in the opposite direction, quick as a lightning. He kept running until he couldn’t hear the intimidating thumps, when a thought dawned at him, _loud_ and clear.

_I'm running towards nothing...again...And again and again and again._

The realisation was incredibly disturbing. Arthur fidgeted in his sleep, his body tense and tender to sensations. A part of him understood it was only a dream so Arthur relaxed a little.

That was, until the shock of a deep synthetic chord jolted him awake.

_One of these days you'll break me of many things  
Some cold white day, but you're crazy if you think I would leave you this way._

He groaned, dropping his face back into the pillow. Fucking Merlin with his fucking music blasting through the fucking sound system in the fucking morning.

Arthur heard shuffling in the room, then something dropped and there was a hiss. “Bummer!”

He sat up and squinted at the room. Merlin was standing with his back turned to Arthur, near the door that left to the spare room. There was a stack of canvases and wooden carcasses piled up against the wall. Merlin bent down and picked up two paintings he had apparently dropped, telling them to “shh” and petting them slightly.

Arthur stared. Right. Not weird at all.

 _YOU SHOULD WAKE UP BEFORE THE WRATH COMES,_ screamed the singer through the speakers. Arthur winced.

“Merlin!” he yelled, his voice dry and raspy from sleeping.

Merlin turned to him swiftly, clutching the paintings to his chest. His expression was ridiculously bewildered.

“What the fuck is this?!” Arthur gestured vaguely at the ceiling, trying to communicate _What the fuck is the deal with the distasteful jibberish you call music blaring like a bloody fanfare in the early hours of the morning for everyone to hear! Some people are still sleeping Merlin --_

“Good morning, Beautiful!” Merlin exclaimed cheerfully, his wide grin in place.

“...What?” Arthur’s angry rant froze in its tracks.

Merlin quickly jogged to another room, blessedly to turn down the volume of the _song._ Arthur grimaced at calling _that_ a _song,_ for lack of any other word.

Merlin re-appeared in the threshold of the living room.

“Good morning, Beautiful,” he repeated calmly since there was no more need to raise his voice in order to be heard over the violent beat. “It’s the name of the song, it’s by Deftones.” He looked distressingly smug.

Arthur thought Merlin had assumed the question _what the fuck is this_ was Arthur’s way of expressing the unabashed admiration for the _delightful_ song. Merlin must have decided Arthur wanted to know _the name of the band_ to listen to it in his free bloody time.

Arthur had never been a morning person. He had always been touchy and grumpy and bitchy until almost noon. And this morning, Merlin just irritated him beyond imagination.

Logically, he realised he had no right to behave that way. He was a guest in Merlin’s home, he should be grateful for whatever he could get. And he was, he was genuinely indebted to Merlin for this kindness and generosity...But it didn’t stop him from bolting up and storming off to the bathroom, _accidentally_ banging all the doors into their frames on his way there.

He took a quick shower, trying to get himself to relax. It wouldn’t do to fuck up his relationship with Merlin just because of a stupid bachelor habit. He would just have to talk with him about it. That’s what they are going to do -- have a talk.

Arthur discovered a bottle of shaving cream, a razor and a new toothbrush lying on the sink tabletop with a bright pink post-it note on them. _‘You Deserve To Be Shaved’ Starting Kit: Use It Wisely :)’_ was written on it in black thick pen.

Arthur chortled. Merlin was a _dork._ Arthur was sure he'd internally referred to Merlin like that about a hundred times already _._ He probably should start working on expanding his vocabulary. _  
_

Arthur struggled to keep a smile off his face while shaving to avoid cutting his cheeks. A streak of toothpaste ran down his chin because he couldn’t fight off a grin when brushing his teeth.

Arthur’s mood got even better when, upon exiting the bathroom, he was met with blessed silence.

That was until he came back into the living room and saw Merlin’s bashful, red face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I sometimes forget I don’t live alone anymore. It’s just a habit of mine, I turn on the music first thing in the morning, and --”

“Merlin, stop.” Arthur interrupted, raising a palm. “It’s me who should be apologising. It’s your home, and your rules. Frankly, I’m not against music in the morning, it’s the _sort_ of music that is playing...” He broke off, unsure how to pursue.

“What do you mean?” Merlin jutted his chin forward, ready to defend his beloved bands.

“I mean,” began Arthur peacefully. “I think there are more suitable songs for such early hours, you know? Like, I’m fine with the semi-hysterical aggravated screamo anthems that seem to be going on your playlist more often than is deemed necessary, really, I’m fine with those, just...Please, after noon.”

Merlin huffed and pressed his lips into a thin line, possibly to hide his pout. “Well, if you feel so strongly about this, why don’t _you_ choose something suitable for mornings,” he retorted, scowling.

Arthur raised an eyebrow in response. “No problem. May I?” he gestured to the bedroom where the station responsible for music in the flat was.

“Knock yourself out,” Merlin extended his hand towards the room in invitation.

Arthur ended up logging into his YouTube account to search for the music. He had a hard time deciding what should go on the playlist. He wanted to listen to everything at once, simultaneously dismissing piece after piece, trying to find something to make Merlin’s breath _catch._ It was very important to get that reaction out of Merlin. Very important.

Eventually, he settled on _Baleen Morning_ by Balmorhea. Not quite breath-taking, but perfectly suitable for the gentle morning’s mood. It even said so in the title.

Arthur returned to the living room feeling like a conqueror. First thing he noticed was how Merlin was standing still, tilting his head to the side, listening carefully to the harmonious notes.

The smug smile Arthur intended to present turned openly fond. He quickly tried to mask his expression into a stony one, but judging by the shy glance Merlin gave him, Arthur didn’t believe he succeeded.

“All right, perhaps you are right,” Merlin conceded. “From now on, you have the duty of compiling the morning playlists. But only the morning ones,” he added.

Arthur laughed good-heartedly. “I accept the power thrust upon me and vow to do it justice. Now, Merlin, what the hell are you doing?”

Merlin looked around, as if he had forgotten what he was in the middle of. “Oh, I’m preparing the spare room. The bed is supposed to be delivered after one o’clock, so I’m clearing the stuff out.”

“More like transitioning the mess from one room to another,” Arthur joked.

Merlin made a face at him. Then he noticed Arthur’s arms. “Hey, your bandages are all soggy. Wait till I get the last of the things out, and then we will re-bandage your wounds, yeah?”

Arthur nodded stiffly. The slight ache in his hands was enough of a reminder of his fuck-up. Having Merlin tend to the cuts was a sort of emotional torture for Arthur, but he supposed it was payback for the reckless behaviour.

He sat on the couch and watched Merlin duck into the room, coming back with his hands full of cardboard boxes. He stuffed them beside the piano and went to get more.

After three more trips into the room that would become Arthur’s, Merlin shook off his hands, flashing a grin at Arthur. He swiftly went to the couch, plopping down beside Arthur on the unmade bed. The first-aid kit was still sitting on the coffee table, never having been taken away since that first time.

“We’ll need to get you a dresser as well,” casually noted Merlin as he was cutting through the old gauze.

“A dresser? I don’t have that many clothes.” Arthur replied quietly.

“We’ll have to get you clothes,” Merlin insisted, taking the bandages off. “You’ve been wearing the same shirt and, um, pants for two days, Arthur. So unless you favour walking around stark naked on laundry days or have me call you ‘Mister Stinky’ from now on, you’ll comply and let me buy you some clothes.”

Merlin inspected the wounds, frowning in concentration. Arthur inhaled deeply and chanced a look at his forearms.

All the deep gashing cuts weren’t bleeding anymore, the smaller ones already looking more like scabs. All of them were going to leave scars behind.

“I suggest you don’t do anything physical for a couple more days to prevent the deep ones from re-opening,” said Merlin, gingerly pressing a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic to the edge of the cuts, looking for any unnatural swelling or pus coming out. Luckily, It appeared the wounds weren’t infected.

Arthur watched Merlin going through the routine, trying to guess what he was thinking. He was coming up empty. Merlin’s expression didn’t have even a hint of disgust or distress to it, only a deep crease of concentration on his forehead and a bitten lip of worry.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Uh, how do you expect to get me clothes, exactly? I can’t even go outside.”

“The Internet is a wonder these days, you will discover, Arthur,” Merlin said cheerfully, patting his leg and standing up. “You can do all kinds of things using the Internet! I suppose there is no such thing in that medieval era you came from, but in this realm you can --”

“Fine, fine, I got it!” exclaimed Arthur, interrupting Merlin’s mocking rant. He huffed in frustration...Only to realise that he never actually had ordered clothes online. When he was younger, he either went to a tailor or on a shopping spree with his nanny. When he was staying with Michael, he got new clothes handed to him already in the bags.

“Uh, Merlin?” he looked down, focusing on his own toes. “Will you, uh...”

“Uh?” prompted Merlin.

“You know...Will you, uh, assist me on this search for the suitable attire?” Arthur mumbled. “I mean, you are the one who will have to pay for it, anyway.”

Merlin laughed. “Aww, Arthur, admit it, you just want my clever advice on the latest fashionable tendencies,” he drawled.

Arthur chuckled, grateful for Merlin’s easy reaction. They both knew how uncomfortable the situation was for Arthur, especially so when he had to ask for help. Merlin must have been incredibly receptive and benevolent because he didn’t take the opportunity to rub his power over Arthur in his face. On the contrary, he laughed it off, making Arthur feel just a little bit better about the whole encounter.

“Come on, let’s see what we can find until the bed’s delivered,” Merlin motioned for Arthur to follow him into the bedroom. Arthur readily obliged.

~

“Whoa no, Merlin, you are _not_ buying me jeans for forty-five bloody pounds!”

“Oh Arthur, come on, don’t be a spoilsport!”

“Okay, let’s get something straight. I understand that you might be feeling uncomfortable seeing me walk around in my briefs -- trust me when I say we’re on the same page here -- so I humbly agreed to borrow the money, yes, Merlin, _borrow,_ don’t give me that look. I agreed to borrow some money from you to get a pair of sweatpants and maybe a t-shirt --”

“Underwear.”

“Fine, and underwear! But that’s it. I’m sure we can find something other than this ridiculously overpriced ‘Topman’ to order from. Here, let me --”

“Get your stupid hands off the laptop, Arthur! Hhhng, no! Ugh, okay, okay!”

“‘Boohoo’? Seriously, Merlin? That’s such a promising name for a shop.”

“Close your mouth and _oh_ look at these!”

“No.”

“Ugh but Arthur! They would look perfect on you! You have just the thighs for them.”

“...What?”

“You know...They will be all...nice and clingy and...”

“Okay, Merlin, first, I am not ordering _Navy Stretch Skinny Chinos_ that look like bloody leggings, and second, not for fifty pounds!”

“Why do you have to be so insufferable?!”

“Why are we even discussing this? Merlin, for fuck’s sakes, it’s just a stupid pair of trousers that I will only wear _at home._ I’m not even going out or anything.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“What?”

“You honestly don’t assume I’ll just let you stew in this flat, do you? I’m taking you out --”

“Merlin, you know I can’t --”

“Under the gracious disguise of darkness, Arthur. You have to go out sometimes or you’ll get an institutional syndrome.”

“A what? What kind of pseudo-scientific research poll did that come from?”

“Nevermind, the point is, I’m dragging you out myself if I have to. Now look at the trousers.”

“Wow these are even worse.”

“Arthur, if you are going to be a douche about this, I’m going to secretly order the ones I like and _make_ you wear them.”

“Merlin, can we please look someplace other than the bloody ‘Boohoo’?”

“Ugh fine, but this is the last one. This is your last chance to get something other than a plush green onesie.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I _so would._ ”

“Finally, Merlin, a site that doesn’t feature forty pounds as _the lowest price._ ”

“You know, they say the rich people are rich because they are basically all scroodges. Looking at you, I can see where that comes from.”

“I’m not rich, Merlin.”

“You were brought up as a rich boy, you said so yourself. I bet you were a spoilt little brat. Spoilt and greedy and _whiny._ ”

“No, Merlin. In fact, between Father drilling the sense of responsibility in my head for as long as I can remember and his tactic of making me feel worthless every time I asked for help _or money,_ for that matter, I am pretty sure I am the last person you could accuse of having been brought up as spoilt. Unless you mean ‘spoilt’ as in ‘tainted’, a rotten fruit.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was only teasing.”

“I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are pushing me to end up indebted to you even further than I already am.”

“Okay. I’ll stop.”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

~  
In the end they settled on: two identical pair of grey sweats; simple dark blue jeans; two long-sleeved shirts, a white one and a salmon one, ( _'Arthur, it would look striking on you'_ ); a wine red t-shirt; a set of white boxers; a warm cardigan with a monochrome geometrical pattern that caught Arthur’s eye and Merlin only grunted to; a collar faux twinset of a charcoal grey sweater with plaid shirt underneath and --

“Arthur, _please._ ”

“No, Merlin! I am definitely _not_ buying a leopard hoodie. Just, no.”

“But Arthur, it’s warm and cozy and it will look so lovely on you!”

“Merlin, you should stop mentioning me and “lovely” in one sentence.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“I’ll let you choose all the music for the whole week.”

And that is how Arthur ended up grudgingly ordering a _Leopard Pattern Hoodie For Men_. He secretly swore to himself to somehow ruin the ridiculous piece of clothing as soon as possible so Merlin would have no choice but to put it into the rubbish. Where it doubtlessly belonged.

The ads on the site promised a free within-24-hour shipping. Arthur memorized the total amount of the purchase, mentally taking a note to learn how much the bed had cost to add to the sum he’d need to pay Merlin back. He also took a note of the price when they chose a plain, wooden dresser to be delivered the next day. Blessedly, they didn’t argue about that one.

~  
Just as Merlin finished loading the washing machine with Arthur’s old clothes, the door bell rang.

Arthur hid in Merlin’s bedroom, trying to avoid the unnecessary contact with the people who were installing his new bed in the adjacent room.

He looked through suggested videos on his YouTube account, catching up with updates from his subscriptions list. Upon remembering his dream, Arthur looked up Mahler’s supposedly transcripted symphony and hummed in surprise. [It was there](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMdjqEfi3U8), done by no other but the aforementioned (by Mahler) Serge Ollive.

Arthur downloaded the offered PDF file of the sheet music, wondering if he had somehow seen this before but never noticed. Probably his subconscious had picked up on that and brought it up in his dream.

When Merlin entered the room, telling him ‘the eagle has left the nest, Arthur, all clear’, Arthur scoffed at his ridiculous declaration and asked if there was a printer he could use.

~

In the evening, Merlin tended to his wounds once again, stating they were healing well. He observed that Arthur might be able to move his hands without any discomfort in a couple of days.

After dinner, Arthur went through the freshly printed score of Mahler’s Symphony with a pencil. He always preferred to go through the piece with his mind first, humming it to himself and locating the most troublesome places to learn. He decided to give it a practical go the next day.

Falling asleep in his new bed, Arthur took a moment to thank whatever gods were guiding his way for granting him the miracle that was Merlin. He still couldn’t quite understand Merlin’s agenda in all this, but whatever it was, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to doubt Merlin’s good intentions.

For the first time in long four years, the maddening itch in his veins to _always run, always hide,_ calmed down. It was undoubtedly there, buzzing like a white radio noise under his skin, but the whole new scale of emotions Merlin evoked in him allowed Arthur to forget about the irritating prickling, letting him fall quickly and soundly asleep.

That night, Arthur didn’t have nightmares.

~  
Sadly, the next day was a Monday, which meant Merlin had to leave for his uni and stay late at the agency he was freelancing at.

Again, he only explained it as “earning credit and possibly securing a place at the agency as soon as I have graduated” while putting too much jam on his toast, not going into the details.

Arthur didn’t ask any questions, too sleepy and grumpy even after waking up to gentle notes of Schumann’s _Märchenbilder for piano and viola Op. 113_ instead of pounding bass of one of Merlin’s usual choice songs.

He was nursing his morning cup of coffee, reconsidering putting Schumann in the morning playlist. Perhaps something more cheerful, like David Lanz, would be better at curing his intolerance to waking up early.

It seemed Merlin, however, was perfectly happy to be up before the sun. He chatted away, his bed hair making him look like an excited ruffled kitten. And maybe Arthur should ease up on these comparisons. It appeared Merlin’s ridiculous habit of associating things with random images was rubbing on Arthur as well.

Merlin surprisingly hugged him goodbye before he left for the day, promising to get some food on his way back. Arthur contemplated going back to bed to catch some more sleep. But the two cups of coffee he had drunk at breakfast would hardly let him lay still now, so instead he sighed, grabbing sheet music and sitting at the piano.

Briefly, he thought about cleaning up the kitchen and doing the dishes. He decided he could do it later. After all, Merlin wouldn’t be back till the evening, thus there was no rush.

Arthur opened the lid of the piano.

His arms still hurt a little, but it was more of a dull ache than a sharp pang of pain he had been experiencing for the past two days.

He put the pages with the music aside, cracking his knuckles, preparing to play scales as a warm up.

Turned out, Arthur’s fingers were so out of practice they might as well have been _wooden._

He was frowning for the whole hour he spent running his butterfingers along the keys, stumbling through chromatic scales on the descend and meticulously going through every type of scales he had ever learnt.

When he got so frustrated he noticed himself banging at the keys, Arthur stopped for a breath and played some easy pieces of classic.

 _‘It doesn’t matter an ounce that you can breeze through Bach’s variations, Arthur. If you can’t manage to play the scales faultlessly, you are out of practice,’_ his music teacher used to say.

Before round two, Arthur contemplated going through Hanon’s exercises. He was so angry at himself and his dumb fingers and the stupid scales, he ended up pushing the keys violently, playing the prescribed “cure for pianists’ imperfections” with a passionate loathing.

Arthur had to grimly admit the damned exercises did him good. He could finally deal with the irritating scales, getting them right, just plain _perfect._

Arthur proceeded to play arpeggios, staccato intervals, league intervals, staccato chords, practised fortissimo to pianissimo through diminuendo, tried playing different combinations of augmented intervals with his eyes closed, relying solely on his ear and clever fingers.

All in all, Arthur was having a field day.

“Have you eaten?”

Arthur jumped on the stool and refused to admit he might also have yelped rather loudly. He turned to glare at --

“Merlin!”

“Oh, did I scare you?” Merlin smiled apologetically. “I was trying to be quiet so as to not disturb you.”

“How long have you been here?” Arthur’s eyes dropped to Merlin’s hands holding a shopping bag. “What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at uni or something?”

“Nice to see you too, Arthur,” Merlin huffed, turning around and walking to the kitchen. “No need to thank me for all this delicious food I brought you.”

“Uh,” said Arthur. In a moment he was up, bolting to beat Merlin to the door. He blocked the doorway, looking for a way to redirect Merlin’s attention to somewhere other than _the messy kitchen._

Merlin gave Arthur a confused look. “Um, Arthur? Are you okay?”

Arthur’s mind was reeling, supplying him with _nothing._ In the end, he went for the truth, looking down guiltily.

“Sorry, Merlin, I meant to clean up, but I kind of got caught in the whole scale business, uh,” he mumbled, not sure what reaction he was expecting from Merlin.

When Arthur had failed to tidy the flat before Michael got home, the man angrily told him off for doing nothing all day, throwing some harsh words in Arthur’s address. Arthur really didn’t want Merlin to be unhappy with him.

He didn’t know how Merlin would respond to this incident of Arthur being a “lazy beanbag”, as Michael had put it, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for what followed. Specifically, for Merlin dissipating into a fit of giggles.

When he calmed down a little, a delighted smile still wide on his lips, Merlin looked at Arthur, his own eyes gleaming joyfully.

“Really, Arthur? You think I’m about to scold you like a puppy for not washing a couple of plates right away like a proper sixties' housewife?”

Arthur lowered his eyes, not saying a word.

“Aw, Arthur, come on,” a hand touched Arthur’s shoulder. Immediately after that, he found himself being tugged into a comforting hug.

“I don’t require you to be a cleaning lady in exchange for staying with me, you know that,” Merlin murmured in his ear. “Whatever dumb deal you had with that douchebag who was a twat, this isn’t it, now that you're living with me, okay?”

Arthur nodded in Merlin’s shoulder, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Merlin drew back, smile back in its place on his full lips. “Now, let’s get to the kitchen before the dinner gets cold, yeah? I ditched my last class to get this to you, I need to run to work in half an hour.”

They went into the kitchen, Merlin placing the cartoon boxes out of the packet onto the table.

“You shouldn’t miss your classes like that, Merlin, it’s irresponsible,” grunted Arthur. He tried to cover up his embarrassment of the whole prior incident at the threshold by being a --

“Prat.” stated Merlin. “I’m being perfectly responsible. I have an equivalent of a silly puppy at home who’d forget to nourish himself if it weren’t for me, too caught up in playing away.”

“I hope you are not implying I’m your pet, Merlin,” Arthur said grudgingly, hoping to mask his body’s response to Merlin’s casual words. Arthur’s heart was thumping rapidly against his ribcage, his fingertips suddenly noticeably warm and slightly prickling. He decided that was an aftermath of raging through the scales.

Merlin only grinned wickedly, getting the cutlery.

“Merlin?” Arthur repeated, hoping that wasn’t the true agenda of Merlin’s he’d been thinking about the previous night. That would be so much worse than expectations of him being a cleaning lady. Hell, that would have Arthur up and leaving the second Merlin confirmed it.

“Arthur, are you daft?” Merlin huffed, scrunching up his nose. “ _Of course_ I don’t think of you as my pet, who the fuck you do you think I am?!”

His tone was hurt, and Arthur mentally cursed himself for ever suggesting it out loud.

“I’m sorry.” After a moment, Arthur cleared his throat and added, “It’s just, it’s so...strange, you doing all this for me and expecting nothing in return? It’s a little...um, unbelievable?”

Merlin sat down opposite of Arthur, opening his box of steaming food. He passed a fork and a knife to Arthur before raising his head and looking Arthur dead in the eye without a shadow of a smile.

“Arthur. I now you’ve gone through some major shite in your life. And I know you’ve met some pretty awful people. But there’s no need to be taking it out on me. I do what I do because I _want to._ Not because I’m harbouring some secret plan to lure you in with my hospitality only to gradually dose you with drugs to get you all pliant and complacent so I will have no problem involving you into some grand BDSM scene which I would record with a video camera, sell and get loads of money and title ‘The Puppet Master.’”

“That sounded awfully detailed and rehearsed for a plan you are not harbouring,” Arthur muttered, fidgeting on his stool, unable to escape Merlin’s piercing look.

“ _The point is,_ ” stressed Merlin, “I know you’ve gone through some stinking bollocks stuff and I understand your reluctance to trust people. But Arthur, you are not the only one with the problems. I met some bad people in my life too, everyone has. It doesn’t mean we should all stop communicating with each other.”

Merlin picked up his fork, motioning for Arthur to do the same. Arthur silently opened his own take-away box to find a steaming portion of rice with what looked like fried vegetables and some sort of meat. He took a bite, but had a hard time swallowing, his throat suddenly closed up.

Merlin chewed quickly to resume speaking once his mouth wasn’t full.

“You know how they say, there are a lot of good people out there but the bad ones have better organization? Well, if you are desperate to find a motive in my behaviour, consider it my investment in creating a chain of good people. Here, a perfect agenda. I’m expecting you to behave with honour and dignity and carry out your existence in graciously humanitarian ways. How does that sound?”

Arthur only hummed mindlessly in response, struggling to keep the food he at last managed to swallow down.

Merlin’s hand blanketed his fingers, clenched tightly around the fork. Arthur raised his eyes to stare into Merlin’s sincere ones.

“I’m really sorry you have such a hard time believing someone might be kind to you just because. But please, Arthur, I’m asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt. For the old times’ sakes, yeah?”

A rush of memories flooded Arthur’s mind for a split second. All the different fragments of Merlin, their coincidental encounters throughout the years and the never-changing amicable attitude of Merlin, his warm smile and bright eyes -- all that suddenly formed a clear pattern in Arthur’s vision. It became so strikingly obvious, he couldn’t believe he ever had doubts regarding Merlin being simply an incredibly kind, honest human being who was perhaps too generous, wearing his heart on his sleeve, for his own good.

Merlin must have noticed something change in Arthur’s eyes because his lips stretched in a relieved smile. He retrieved his hand to tuck an innocent strand of hair behind his ear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Frankly, your suspicious attitude was getting offensive.”

They finished eating in silence, Merlin wolfing down all of his portion, hurrying to get to work in time.

“Thank you.” said Arthur quietly as they got up.

“No problem! It was just a one-off since you have courteously suggested to cook the food. You will be able to exploit your wonderful abilities once I stock up on the ingredients,” Merlin cheerfully replied, winking at him. However, Arthur knew Merlin understood what he was really thanking him for, so he played along.

"I said that?" Arthur replied, raising his eyebrows incredulously.

“Reflect on your hasty promises while I’m away, Arthur,” Merlin smirked. “And maybe look up some vegetarian recipes so I know the ingredients to buy.”

With that and a quick hug, Merlin left the kitchen in a flurry of coat, messenger bag and the fading sound of giggles.

Arthur started cleaning the kitchen right away, not trusting himself with putting it off any longer.

Afterwards, he went on Merlin’s computer and _did_ browse through some sites, compiling a list of products to give to Merlin.

When he was done with that, Arthur contemplated cleaning the place further, like maybe dusting or rearranging the haphazard piles of boxes in the living room. Inevitably, he found himself at the piano again, carefully reading the sheet music for Mahler’s Symphony and occasionally playing random pieces he knew until Merlin returned home.

He brought a pizza with him, familiarly divided into two halves -- one vegetarian and one meat.

After dinner, Merlin requested for Arthur to play the piano while Merlin worked on some projects, having covered a part of the living room with plastic material to avoid stains. Arthur happily obliged, going through piece after piece, his trained fingers flying gracefully over the keys. It was a good feeling, knowing someone _enjoyed_ listening to him play, cherished his hard work.

Occasionally, Merlin would pipe in with words of praise or clap excitedly after a particularly moving piece.

They called it a night soon after one o’clock. Merlin quickly called dibs on the shower, sticking his tongue out at Arthur.

The clothes they had ordered was taking another day to get there, so Arthur changed into his last fresh pair of boxers after the shower, the washed clothes still wet on the drying rail.

He had to pass through Merlin’s bedroom to get into the living room and then into his own room. Arthur really didn’t mind Merlin seeing his chest, but the shirt he had been wearing used to also cover his crotch just so. Without it, Arthur felt strangely naked.

He exited the bathroom only to see Merlin sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard so Arthur was straight-on in his view.

He saw Merlin raise his eyes from his laptop and tried to walk nonchalantly, full of feigned confidence. He was at the threshold when he heard a bubbling muffled laughter behind. Arthur turned around, about to inquire ‘ _what’s so funny, Merlin,_ ’ but Merlin beat him to it, practically suffocating himself with the pillow in an attempt to contain his stupid guwaffing.

“ _Arthur,_ ” he howled into the pillow. Unable to hold much longer, apparently, Merlin tossed the pillow to the side and laughed unabashedly into the air, loud and _irritating_.

Arthur pressed his lips together, waiting for Merlin to calm down so he could demand an explanation _._

“Arthur,” wheezed Merlin, wiping tears of _joy, undoubtedly_ , from his eyes. “I’m sorry, but.. _.Oh my God_...Arthur, I _have_ seen you naked, you know, you don’t need to...Oh _Jesus,_ ” Merlin squeaked, dissipating into a fit of giggles again but still managing to get the words out. “You don’t need to wobble around as if you, hrmph, forgot to, hmphhph, forgot how to walk.”

Merlin calmed down eventually, only an occasional stray chortle escaping his throat now and then. Arthur realised he had been standing there, frozen, for enough time for Merlin to take a good look at anything he wanted to.

Belatedly, Arthur turned around swiftly and muttered something unintelligible at Merlin, quickly walking away and _not wobbling,_ despite whatever gibberish Merlin resumed howling with laughter about.

He got into his bed, still grumbling to himself. Arthur refused to acknowledge the ridiculous smile quirking his lips as he got under the covers. As he laid in his bed, he realised Merlin didn’t hug him goodnight.

Something twisted in his chest.

Perhaps, it had been just a one-time thing. Or Merlin forgot. Or that was because Arthur was practically naked, after all.

He had almost drifted to sleep when he heard a door opening. He laid on his right side, with his back to the entrance.

The sound of someone padding towards his bed pierced through his sluggish mind. Arthur was almost ready to panic, not fully realising what was happening. However, his reflexes were slow so he didn’t even stir as the mattress deepened under the weight and a pair of strong hands sneaked across Arthur’s torso, a clothed chest pressing along his back.

“Good night, Arthur,” Merlin whispered into his ear.

Arthur thought he felt Merlin pressing a quick kiss to his temple, but then that was probably only Arthur’s imagination as he promptly fell into a deep sleep.

~  
Whatever Arthur might have expected living with Merlin to be like, it was definitely not this.

Instead of a quiet, mundane co-existence in shared space out of necessity, Arthur got a full plate of _living_ with another human being.

The first thing he noticed was that Merlin talked a _lot._

At breakfast, Arthur’s head was still cloudy from sleep so he couldn’t quite grasp the concept of anything Merlin was saying; which wasn’t stopping Merlin from chattering away, speaking more in his weird associations than any actual language.

_“You know, Arthur, yesterday I saw a bus that was like a cat. I mean, due to rain, its outline was so smudgy, it was almost like a cat’s fur, although I’ve never seen a fire-red cat, but I suppose they could exist, especially if you upturned a bottle of red ink all over a white cat. And it was just, crawling along the road because the traffic was so thick and when I was walking by, I could hear it purr quietly, I mean I suppose it was the engine but it literally was a cat, Arthur, a bus-cat! And its eyes, I mean headlights, glowed yellow and I thought, wow that would have been one feral cat! And --”_

_“Mgngh, Mhrrln!”_

_“Are you trying to impersonate the bus-cat or do you just want more coffee?”_

Sometimes Merlin managed to get to the apartment in the middle of his busy day, instantly dragging Arthur away from the piano, and sitting him at the kitchen table to have lunch. Despite the fact, that Arthur was --

_“-- in the middle of something, Merlin! You can’t just interrupt me like that!”_

_“I don’t have much time, Arthur, so kindly only open your mouth to eat. By the way, I’m going to buy you a cookbook so you’ll have something to do. I mean, something other than play piano. I bet that gets really boring sometimes, doing the same thing over and over day after day.”_

_“It isn’t boring, Merlin, how could you even imply such a thing. Besides, I am actually reading a book. I kind of rummaged through your bookshelf, ah.”_

_“Oh! What are you reading?”_

And Merlin would listen to him, enraptured, as he shovelled the food in his mouth hurriedly. At some point, he’d tell Arthur to go back to eating, saying they could discuss the book thoroughly in the evening.

When Merlin got back late at night, he’d make them both hot tea and sit with Arthur on the couch, tired, but insisting Arthur told him everything that had happened during the day. After a while, they’d watch an episode of _Joan D’Arc_ or get caught in arguing over books and plots and plot holes until Merlin started yawning so wide, his eyes became filled with tears.

Arthur would tell him to go to bed. Merlin obliged, but not until he hugged Arthur good night, subtly pawing at the leopard hoodie Arthur took to wearing.

What? The hoodie was comfortable and warm and soft. Besides, nobody would ever see Arthur in it apart from Merlin. And if Merlin liked it so much, Arthur would do him the courtesy of tugging that ridiculous cozy thing on practically every day.

The next thing Arthur gradually got accustomed to was all the wince-inducing cheerful post-it notes Merlin left _everywhere._ Literally. One time, Arthur woke up to a brightly pink piece of paper stuck to his forehead. ‘ _The morning always has a way of creeping up on me and peeking in my bedroom windows. The sunrise is such a pervert :P_ ’ it read.

It was a mystery how Merlin managed to sneak the notes into the most obvious of places without Arthur noticing. They turned up on the fridge door, on the bathroom mirror, in Arthur’s clothes drawer, under the pillow, inside a book Arthur was currently reading, stuck to the keyboard of the piano, in a single pocket of Arthur’s leopard hoodie, in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen -- Arthur got used to finding the unexpected little messages everywhere. With time, he was almost disappointed if he opened a cupboard and didn’t see the flash of pink. Somehow, every day for Arthur became a one big hunt to collect _all_ the notes Merlin had planted around the flat.

The content of those notes was always different. Sometimes, it was silly one-liners - _“If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back?”_ \- that made Arthur huff and shake his head, a fond smile forming on his lips. And sometimes, it was a inspirational quote of the day Merlin had likely found on some site full of stolen sayings - _“It’s not the fall that kills you; it’s the sudden stop at the end.”_ Arthur scrunched his face at those, secretly glad Merlin took the time to find a phrase, even if a little cliché, that actually made feel Arthur a little better.

His favourites, thought, were the ones with random sentences that looked like a song’s lyrics - Arthur would spend time googling those and listening to the song itself - and the ones Merlin wrote as a direct message to him.

_“Arthur, I went into the store and bought...a carton of orange juice :) No seriously, there is orange juice in the fridge, finish it, I drank my half!”_

_“Woke early the next morning to see the frost had bitten me. My blisters black and touch cold,  
like a cute stuffed toy bear's nose -- the kind of gift I'd give you like a less committed Van Gogh :P”_

_“DO NOT EAT THE BLUE-ISH JELLY STUFF ON THE COUNTER. I REPEAT, DO NOT EAT IT, ARTHUR. IT’S FOR MY ART PROJECT.”_

_“Arthur, don’t think I haven’t noticed that my art-project jelly only fills ¾ of the jar whereas the jar used to be FULL. JUST YESTERDAY.”_

_“Arthur if you touch my blueberry jelly one more time, I’m going to draw inappropriate pictures all over your face WHILE YOU SLEEP. IN PERMANENT PEN. AND TAKE PHOTOS. AND MAKE IT THE ART PROJECT I NEED THE BLUEBERRY JAM FOR.”_

_“Your hands still catch the light the right way and  
Our hearts still beat the same”_

_“If sun bunnies could be human, I think you’d definitely be one, Arthur.”_

_“We were strong. We stayed bright as lightning, we sang loud as thunder, we moved ever forward. We are not our failures. We are love.”_

_“Dear Arthur, please have lunch on your own today, am going to be home late, will check if you’ve eaten xo!”_

_“You, soft and only; You, lost and lonely; You, strange as angels Dancing in the deepest oceans, twisting in the water. You're just like a dream”_

One time, Arthur asked Merlin about this strange habit. Merlin blushed and explained with his eyes down that when he had lived with his mother, she used to work a lot, so she’d leave him all these little notes that made him feel less lonely. He mumbled about simply trying to lighten up Arthur’s days and muttered that he could stop if it was making Arthur uncomfortable. Arthur rushed to argue that it was fine. Perhaps, he was being too feverish about it because Merlin gave him a curious look. Arthur couldn’t decipher what it meant. He noticed, however, that the notes definitely multiplied in numbers after that conversation.

 

December 2012

During the last two weeks of November that Arthur had spent living with Merlin, he had started to notice himself relaxing in his surroundings - something that hadn't happened for a long, long time. In fact, Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had been so comfortable living with someone.

With Uther, it had always been the constant pressure, the perpetual need to have himself in check, under control. Arthur couldn’t let go and let himself loosen up under Uther’s strict set of rules and his scrutinous eye.

He had had a temporary break on the days when he went to stay with Gaius and Morgana, but those times were also darkened by the inevitable need to return home.

During his stay with Michael, Arthur lived in the same ever-present state of self-discipline, never arguing with Michael and definitely never talking with him about _feelings._

With Merlin, Arthur felt as if it was the first time he was allowed to be himself. Bit by bit, Merlin coerced Arthur to stop trying to behave like a perfect little spartanian soldier, letting him show his actual personality, _be himself._

And despite the fact that Arthur being himself wasn’t always the smoothest road, Merlin seemed to be delighted every time Arthur showed a genuine emotion, be it an irritable request to “Please shut up, Merlin” or the way he talked about Morgana, quiet and wistful.

Arthur also had never been touched so much so innocently in his whole life. Merlin not only hugged him good night and good morning; he appeared to be using every opportunity to get some contact with Arthur’s body. Merlin’s favourite way of doing that seemed to be straddling Arthur on the couch, draping himself all over him, or snuggling into Arthur’s side when watching TV.

It had been two weeks, and Arthur had developed a craving. He realised he must have been touch-starved his whole life, and now that it had been revealed, Arthur couldn’t get enough of those little electric tingles that run through his body and mingled into warmth deep in his stomach every time Merlin touched him.

Arthur wasn’t brave enough yet to initiate the contact first, but he gladly reciprocated, locking his arms around Merlin’s back or cautiously hugging him close with one arm when they cuddled on the couch.

It was December, which meant Merlin had midterms coming up. He spent more time at home now, working on his numerous projects until the second half of the day when he had to go perform his duties at the agency. Arthur still wasn’t quite sure what exactly Merlin’s chores were. He tried asking him about it, but got a bubbly reply of which he understood only about five per cent. Arthur decided he was content with not actually knowing.

In the absence of a proper working space, the only spare room occupied by Arthur, Merlin settled on doing his assignments in the living room.

As usual, he had covered everything with a plastic material to avoid stains from accidental splashes of colourful liquid when Merlin clumsily upturned his numerous bowls. Arthur giddily noted to himself how Merlin looked almost like a chemist, an insane professor sans a white coat since Merlin preferred to go around dressed in an old hoodie that probably used to be dark grey, but now lost all it intense colour due to years of wearing.

Curiously, it was always cold in their flat. Not freezing enough to wake up with a stuffed nose, but so that Arthur had to resort to wearing the only clothes that warmed him up. Which of course was the leopard hoodie.

Arthur asked Merlin to do something about the heating several times, but Merlin only batted his eyelashes at him innocently, saying it was working fine and maybe Arthur would like to stop complaining sometime. Arthur stopped, but he noticed Merlin grinning to himself like the cat who got all the cream. All of it.

Whilst Merlin worked on his art, Arthur played piano for him. They spent hours without saying a word, both deeply involved in their affairs.

By the third week of December, Arthur noticed Merlin humming a piece Arthur usually played out of habit, _The Song From A Secret Garden_ , and smiled to himself. He couldn’t pinpoint why he was so joyful of that occurrence and in the end, he decided he didn’t have to. He was quite content just feeling good feelings, not going into psychological reasoning behind them.

Days mingled into nights. Occasionally Merlin would stay true to his word and drag Arthur outside. They went to a park, or to a small 24-hour café, talking loudly over a hot supper. Twice, Merlin had discovered some ridiculous night art-shows, which he immediately made Arthur go to.

Five weeks passed quickly, and Arthur realised it was almost Christmas.

A subtle feeling of dread creeped into his conscience. He didn’t want to bring up the subject, didn’t want to hear that Merlin would go to stay with his family, leaving Arthur out or worse, ask him to go chill outside for a couple of days the way Michael had.

Arthur spent whole days on edge, watching the calendar tick off towards 25th of December.

He was so nervous about it that his demeanour turned unusually snappy, on edge. By the 16th, Merlin apparently had had enough.

“Arthur, care to tell me what the fuck is going on with you?” Merlin inquired irritatingly when Arthur banged on the keys, cursing under his breath when he messed up the chords.

“Nothing the fuck is going on with me,” Arthur spat back, almost snarling.

“You’ve been bashing at the piano for like an hour now like you’re trying to exact revenge from it or something. Frankly, I think my ears have started to _bleed_ ,” Merlin retorted.

Arthur growled in reply. He felt like he was about to blow up. It was bad enough that he’d have to spend the holidays alone, that Merlin had been so infuriating these past few days, caught up in his uni work thus completely ignoring Arthur’s frowns. Now Merlin took to judging Arthur’s playing? _Seriously?_

“Arthur, is there anything you want to tell me? Is your princely arse sore about something? _Again?”_

Merlin had been teasing him a lot about being a “grumpy entitled prat” although Arthur was absolutely sure the statement was scandalously incorrect. He wasn’t grumpy, he was nowhere _near_ entitled, and he certainly wasn’t a _prat._

Arthur usually let it slide, but not this time. The anger bubbled inside him, and Arthur didn’t waste time on determining what the anger was _about,_ he just went with it, shouting his way through.

“Stop referring to my anything as _princely,_ Merlin, I’m not a _prince,_ for fuck’s sakes --”

“Well, you certainly behave like one!” Merlin interrupted. “Arrogantly jumping to assumptions on any concepts alien to your incredibly ignorant brain, judging everyone around you without trying to even grasp their point of view first!”

“What the fuck, Merlin?!” Arthur’s cheeks burned with uncontrolled rage. “Where is this coming from?!”

But Merlin didn’t listen, already too caught up in his rant, all the built-up tension seeping through his loud ringing voice.

“I’ve been trying to get my fucking assignments for uni done, all the ones I’ve neglected because I’ve been too busy looking after _you_. And when I’m not hurrying around to get home after classes to see if you are okay, I’m slaving away at the fucking agency where I’m supposed to earn credit so they give me a _job,_ Arthur, and I’m graduating in six months and if I don’t get it, I don’t fucking know what am I going to do, I need to earn money for a fucking living for the both of us, and my mam called yesterday, saying she won’t be able to come visit me because of some shite about the house, and I’m guessing she’s having trouble paying the debt, so I need to get the money to help her out too and I can’t fucking go visit her either because I can’t leave you alone for Christmas, now can I, so I resorted to baking you fucking apple pies and watching TV all holidays while she is there with her friends and not _me_ , but screw that, before I can fucking put an apron on, I have to finish a billion fucking projects for both uni and work and I really don’t have the time to deal with you giving me shite over nothing and banging the fuck out of the piano while I’m trying to get some fucking work done, _Jesus_!”

Merlin stopped, breathing heavily, his eyes shiny with all the daggers he’s been sending Arthur’s way.

Silence fell in the room, interrupted only by Merlin’s ragged wheezing. He stood, intensely looking down at Arthur sitting on the piano stool staring back at him.

“You...were going to spend Christmas baking me pies..?” At last, Arthur asked quietly.

Merlin’s laugh came out unnervingly hysterical.

“This is all you fucking got out of the whole bloody speech I just threw at you?!” Merlin covered his face with his palms. He was shaking, and Arthur prayed he wasn’t crying.

Impulsively, he stood up and close the distance between them, cautiously wrapping his arms around Merlin and tugging him close.

“I’m sorry, Merlin, I...I’m sorry,” Arthur murmured in his ear. He didn’t know what else to say. Looking back at his behaviour, he realised it was immensely stupid, selfishly ungrateful of him to pour his complicated _feelings_ on Merlin like that. Perhaps, Merlin was right. Perhaps, Arthur really was an arrogant entitled prat.

Slowly, Merlin lowered his hands from his face, sneaking them around Arthur’s middle and burying face in his neck.

Miserably, Arthur felt wetness on his skin.

“Shh, Merlin, shh, I’m sorry,” he whispered, rubbing his palms along Merlin’s spine, his shoulders, petting his hair, all the while feeling Merlin’s body shuddering with silent sobs against him.

“I guess we’ve just both been pretty tense,” Merlin mumbled in his neck when he found his unsteady voice again. “I’m not crying because,” he sniffed, “I’m not crying because I’m upset, you know. I mean I am, upset, but it’s just so much pressure, Arthur. And you are not making it easier.”

“I’m sorry,” repeated Arthur. He paused, gathering the courage to speak what had been on his mind for a while now. “Do you want me to leave?..”

Instantly, Merlin jerked back in his arms, taking a small step back to stare at Arthur with wide, tearful eyes. His eyelashes were tear-flecked, making him look heart-wrenchingly vulnerable.

“What?” he gasped, his voice breaking.

Arthur absentmindedly brought his fingers up to gently brush away at the wet traces on Merlin’s cheeks. “If I am making you so stressed, wouldn’t it be better if I just left?”

Merlin’s graceful features formed a frighteningly enraged expression on his face in a fraction of a second. His fingers dug painfully into Arthur’s sides.

“What the fuck, Arthur?!” He seemed to be not getting enough air, breathing loudly as he tried to form a coherent sentence, his eyes luminous with fury and what looked a little like hurt.

Arthur guessed his departure was a wrong thing to suggest.

“I can’t believe this!” Merlin pushed him away with enough force for Arthur to stumble back.

Arthur watched as Merlin turned away, a heavy feeling in his stomach. _Congratulations on fucking everything up again, Arthur,_ he mentally slapped at himself.

“You know what, this is exactly what infuriates me the most about you!” Merlin yelled.

Arthur thought he knew where this was going. _You always run away_ or _You never put up a fight,_ and he was ready to protest. He wasn’t _backing off_ , he was in fact --

“Always so stubborn in your bloody insistence to do everything on your own, fucking arrogant in assuming you’ve got everything under control!” Merlin sharply turned at him, and if looks could kill, they’d only be smoke left in Arthur’s place right that second.

Arthur froze with his mouth open. He was ready to argue against the implications of his cowardice or jumping the ship as a way of dealing with his issues, but he never expected Merlin to throw the startling truth at him, stinging in its accuracy.

Merlin took advantage of Arthur’s loss of words, continuing to shout in a litany.

“So you leave, so what?! What are you going to do? Where are you going to fucking go in winter in fucking London?! Are you going to hang in fishy fucking pubs, trading your body for a roof above your stupid arse head? Or slitting your wrists on some god forsaken street corner? Yes, Arthur, you leaving would obviously make me less stressed. I will sleep so fucking soundly at night, knowing you are probably bleeding out somewhere!”

Merlin stomped towards him, grabbing his arms and yanking the sleeves up so that the paling red lines were showing, ugly and clear.

“ _This_ is not control, Arthur. This,” Merlin gripped Arthur’s wrists painfully. “Is _lost._ ”

Arthur found himself staring at the criss-cross pattern of scars and fading traces of old wounds. His breathing was surprisingly shallow, coming out in little puffs. Above him, Merlin resumed speaking.

“You can’t do this alone, Arthur, okay? Accept it. Fucking accept it, it’s about time. And I’m not going to just let you bail and give up. I’m not fucking leaving you, understood? Fucking deal with it. You are a fucking insufferable prick with mashed broccoli instead of a brain, but --”

Merlin suddenly cut off. Arthur slowly raised his eyes to look at him, to maybe ask _’but what?’_ , when he saw Merlin’s expression. It was raw and open, his face flushed and his lips glistening. It would have been a mask of anger if not for Merlin’s eyes. Big, sincere, lucent eyes the colour of a cloudless, cerulean sky.

Instantly, Arthur was crushed in a tight hug, Merlin’s fingers grabbing handfuls of his idiotic leopard print hoodie, sneaking his hands under it to press closer to Arthur’s skin, even if through the material of his t-shirt.

He heard Merlin declare in a feverishly low voice, “But -- at least until July -- you are _mine._ ”

Arthur felt something tickle his cheek. It wasn’t until he awkwardly brought up his palm around Merlin’s shoulder to touch his own skin, smearing the liquid and starting at his wet fingers that he realised that he was crying.

~

In the end, Merlin managed to efficiently finish all of his projects, and they spent the holidays in high spirits.

After Merlin, quite loudly and clearly, told Arthur he wasn’t letting him go anywhere, the constant anxious buzz under Arthur’s skin settled down, making him comfortably content and compliant.

He worked on his behaviour, trying to recess on his grumpy complaints about Merlin’s music and loudmouth habits, discovering it was easier to just let it flow. Arthur still had trouble sometimes, feeling an acute loss of control over his life.

In those moments, his gaze subtly fell on Merlin’s x-acto knife carelessly lying on the coffee table among his other art supplies. His fingers itched to pick up something deliciously sharp and remind himself that he still held the ultimate power over his life, except that Merlin’s distant voice echoed in his ears, _‘this is not control, Arthur,’_ and Arthur ended up playing the piano violently to the point of exhaustion instead.

~February, March, April 2013.

During his spring break, Merlin declared he was going to be a decent son and go visit his mother. He invited Arthur along, but Arthur politely declined, as much paranoid about being caught travelling as he was about suddenly being introduced to Merlin’s mother.

Merlin didn’t insist, understanding the reasoning behind Arthur’s actions.

They spent a week apart, Merlin calling him twice a day to babble at him about his days. Arthur listened silently, lying in his bed in a zombie state from the lack of sleep. He secretly spent his days brooding, scowling at everything his eyes fell upon. He never intended on Merlin finding out just how miserable that week was for Arthur.

He resisted the temptation to give up and go to sleep in Merlin’s bed, hoping that perhaps he would be able to close his eyes for more than a minute and fall into the kingdom of oblivion if Merlin’s scent comfortably surrounded him, but Arthur drew a line on creepiness at wearing Merlin’s old grey art hoodie as a substitute for his own leopard one. The one Merlin insisted he’d take with him because _“You don’t even like it, Arthur, and it’s really cold in Newry, so I might as well wear it instead.”_ Arthur tried to not overthink the implications of Merlin wearing his clothes. Merlin snoring in Arthur’s hoodie was _not_ the image he wanted in his head.

Merlin wearing his clothes while riding him was _definitely_ not the image Arthur needed in his mind when he was wanking, enjoying the blessed loneliness of the flat as the one perk of Merlin being away. The image still haunted him though, despite Arthur’s attempts to get rid of it. By the end of the week, he had half-assedly accepted the title of a creep. _"Well, at least now Merlin unknowingly has a reason to call me entitled,"_ he snorted.

When Merlin came back, they spent a whole day cuddling on the couch. Merlin was more clingy than usual, although Arthur hadn’t thought such a thing was possible.

The first night after Merlin's return, Arthur couldn’t sleep, even though knowing Merlin was just in the next room. By the time his mobile phone blinked 3 am, Arthur was desperate enough to go and pathetically crawl into Merlin’s bed when he heard his door creaking open.

In a moment, he felt a body carefully sliding behind his back. Arthur turned on his back and heard Merlin squeak in surprise.

“You are not asleep?” he piped in a small voice.

“Couldn’t.” replied Arthur curtly, drawing back the covers for Merlin to sneak underneath and tugging him close.

“I missed you,” whispered Merlin, snuggling into his chest.

“I missed you, too.”

Arthur’s voice was barely audible. He fell asleep to the sound of Merlin breathing.

  
~May 2013

Merlin started to go out on weekends.

At first, he’d come back before 2 am, smiling at Arthur languidly before bidding him good night and disappearing in his own room.

Gradually, he started returning later and later at night, until one time he stumbled into the flat early in the morning. Arthur glared at him silently from the couch where he’d been sitting, waiting endless hours like a bloody dog.

“So what time do you call this, Merlin?” he asked coldly.

Merlin jumped, turning on the lights and squinting at Arthur. Arthur narrowed his eyes back. Merlin sure was a sight. Mussed hair, flushed cheeks, his clothes wrinkled. And his lips were suspiciously red and puffy, as if bitten.

Arthur felt the beginnings of a storm growling low in his stomach.

“Arthur, _Jesus_! You scared the hell out of me!” Merlin exclaimed, placing his palm over his chest in a futile attempt to calm down his heartbeat.

“Oh, really?” Arthur raised his eyebrow, face expression otherwise stoney. “I guess that’s a decent payback for _making me worry the whole fucking night._ ”

Merlin gaped at him for a moment. “You were… _worried_?”

Arthur bolted up from the couch, throwing his hands up. “Of bloody course I was worried, Merlin! You idiot! It’s fucking six in the morning and you are not here, you haven’t called, what am I supposed to think?!”

“Arthur, keep your voice down, you’ll wake up the whole building.”

“Fuck you, Merlin. I’ve been sitting here, going out of my fucking mind thinking all the worst that could have happened, about to go searching for you while you weren’t answering your damn phone because you were too busy fucking!”

Merlin visibly flinched at that.

“What?” Arthur snarled. “You think I don’t know? Fuck, Merlin, have you _seen_ yourself in the mirror? You look like you’ve just sneaked out of a bloody brothel, in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have!”

“Arthur,” Merlin said in a steady, low voice. “You have no right to talk to me like that. You have no right to give me this shit, you are not my bo --”

“Am I not your bloody _boyfriend_?!” Arthur interrupted, his voice sharp in his own ears. “Damn right I’m not. Who is it, then? Who is this mysterious fucker?” Arthur laughed humourlessly at his own stupid pun.

“You are the only mysterious fucker I know,” muttered Merlin, chucking his keys on the coffee table and moving to go to his bedroom.

Arthur grabbed him on the arm. “Where the hell are _you_ going?”

Merlin winced at him, angrily trying to snatch his arm back with no avail. “To sleep! Fuck, Arthur, let go!”

“So, what, you are just going to fall happily asleep now, is that it?!” Arthur gripped his fingers tightly before letting his hand fall at once.

“Well, what are you expecting me to do? I’m too tired to endure your temper tantrums at six in the morning, yeah?”

Arthur felt the urge to smash his fist against a wall or Merlin’s face or preferably the face of the lucky imbecile whom Merlin had spent the whole night with.

“Just humour me, Merlin,” he said instead. “Who is it? Is it one of your friends? Is it someone from work?”

“It’s none of your fucking business, Arthur.” Merlin spat.

“ _Do you kiss him?_ ”

Arthur didn’t intend for his voice to come out that desperate, that broken and hurt. He promptly closed his mouth, suddenly hoping Merlin would proceed with going to bed. And it was just like Merlin to not do what he was supposed to, instead widening his stupid piercing beautiful eyes at Arthur.

“Arthur?..”

“You know what, whatever, Merlin, I don’t really care, go --”

Arthur didn’t finish because Merlin flung himself at him, hugging Arthur close. And as quick as that, Arthur’s anger dissipated, leaving only the vicious sting of knowing that as efficient as Merlin was at shutting him up with his absolute disregard of the concept of personal space, he might have been making someone moan into his mouth with equal success not that long while ago.

“I don’t kiss them.” Merlin mumbled into the skin of his jaw. “I never kiss them, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t know if he ought to feel relieved by that statement or disheartened by Merlin saying _‘them’._ Plural.

He optioned on bringing his hands to envelop Merlin’s body, clutching him close.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Merlin clarified needlessly. “But I have certain needs, Arthur. You know that. I’m only human.”

“It wouldn’t kill a human to answer the fucking phone,” grunted Arthur in reply. His mind was screaming _‘yes, I know Merlin, I have those needs too, let’s play matchmaking’_ but he only pressed his lips tighter together.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin murmured. “I’m sorry for making you worry. I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone. It won’t happen again.”

Merlin drew back and stared at Arthur intently before slowly bringing his face close. Arthur’s heart sped up. It looked like Merlin was going to kiss him.

Merlin finally was going to kiss him.

His eyes fluttered closed, a lump in his throat making it impossible to swallow. He could feel Merlin’s hot shallow breath on his lips, the heat from his skin radiating and warming up Arthur’s cheeks.

After a second too long, Arthur felt a gentle press of soft lips to his cheekbone. He waited with his eyes closed, preparing for the shock of Merlin’s full lips on his. His heart was beating rabbit-fast, he couldn’t get enough of the unnerving anticipation. The thrumming excitement was almost as good as his first proper kiss he was about to --

He never got.

He felt a cold swish of air as Merlin stepped back, freeing himself from the hug. Arthur opened his eyes and his heart clenched painfully, missing a beat, when he saw Merlin’s apologetic face.

“I’m going to go to sleep now, Arthur. Good night.” Merlin turned away and walked into his room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Arthur wanted to bash his head into the nearest surface or claw at his veins in an attempt to stop the excruciating pain from spreading through his body. He didn’t know why he was hurting, didn’t know why his eyes started to prickle.

He didn’t know why he was not enough for Merlin to maybe possibly fall in love with him.

He didn’t know why he was never enough.

~

The next day, which was a relative concept since they both only woke up around 6 o’clock in the evening, Arthur from an uneasy sleep and Merlin relaxed after a fulfilling rest, was a day of walking on eggshells.

They silently shared a meal that consisted of a cup of tea and toast with jam, automatically ending up on the couch afterwards in front of a babbling TV.

Neither of them said anything, staring blankly at the screen without really getting into what was going on there. The silence wasn’t companionable; it was heavy and uncomfortably electrified with tension.

At last, Merlin burst.

“Fuck it!” He threw his hands in the air, turning off the TV. He turned to Arthur sitting on the far end of the couch. “I’m sorry I was a douchebag and I want to make amends. My amends include getting you intoxicated and listening to you talking about all the complex feelings you are harbouring. And don’t even try to deny it,” Merlin warned, seeing Arthur frowning and opening his mouth to argue.

“Also,” Merlin added. “I will answer any of your questions that might just not be your business. _Any_ questions,” he stressed pointedly.

Arthur huffed a small laugh in surrender, shrugging his shoulders. And just like that, Merlin’s grin was back in place, _seriously, who was the one craving control in here,_ and went to his bedroom to retrieve what Arthur supposed was the potion of his intoxication.

Merlin returned with a full bottle of rum, placing it on the table and ducking into the kitchen to get two glasses and a packet of fortunately convenient cherry juice.

At Arthur’s silent raised-eyebrows question, Merlin only waved his arm dismissively, “A present from work.”

“They sure know what their employees need,” remarked Arthur, earning a scowl from Merlin.

“Stop talking, start drinking.” Merlin ordered, plopping down on the couch, this time so close to Arthur that their thighs touched.

“Start pouring,” Arthur mused, cheekily.

Merlin stuck his tongue at him, opening the bottle and pouring two centimetres of rum equally into the glasses, topping them full with the cherry juice.

“Let’s get pissed!” Merlin toasted, clinking his glass to Arthur and taking a large gulp.

Arthur laughed and tasted his own drink, finding it dazzlingly delicious. It was just the right mix of spiking alcohol and a sugary-sour cherry taste that made him drink it easily, looking at Merlin over the rim of his glass and wondering what were the chances of this ending badly.

~

When they started their second glasses, Merlin looked like he noted that something was off. After a moment of contemplation, tilting his head to the side like a kitten and listening to the complete silence of the room, he got up and went into the bedroom with a grin.

Arthur minutely wondered where he went, puzzled, until he heard the grave notes of a song starting.

“Merlin, it better not be one of your ridiculous screamo bands!” he called.

“I’d prefer if you only used your mouth for drinking now, Arthur, thank you very much,” cheerfully replied Merlin, coming back into the living room.

Arthur huffed but gulped another portion of his sweet-spikey cherry rum.

“Actually, let’s make this interesting,” smirked Merlin, filling their glasses once again. “Time to play twenty questions! The one who is asking, drinks.”

“What happened to your order to ‘stop talking, start drinking’? Besides, shouldn’t the one answering drink? He’d likely could make more use of it, considering the courage needed to answer your needling questions,” Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I think a sip of alcohol will be helpful to prepare to hear the answer,” Merlin winked at him. “You go first.”

“Okay,” Arthur obliged. “Why do you only kiss your nonexistent _boyfriend_?”

He drank, wincing slightly at the taste. It was noticeably less cherry juice in the rum this time around, but Arthur was already at that stage of intoxication where the bitter taste wasn’t too off-putting.

“Um, it’s a purity thing, I guess,” Merlin blushed, intensifying the red in his cheeks that was put there by the drinking.

“You guess.” Arthur wasn’t posing it as a question, careful of the rules of the game.

“Yeah, I mean, my first kiss got stolen. It was the most unpleasant one in my whole life, I kind of decided to give up on kissing there and then, to be honest. Didn’t think it was something special. But then I met someone and...it sort of happened, the kissing, I mean, and I changed my mind. However,” Merlin started talking faster, staring into his glass. He looked desperate to have a sip right about now. “I decided to make the kissing special, for my own sake. I mean, just sex is one thing, it’s sort of...animalistic, you know? Primitive. Kissing is what makes it sensual, makes it complicated. If I started kissing everyone I sleep with, I’d be miserable and would lose the feeling of kissing being something _special._ And I really don’t want to do that.”

Merlin took a large swig of his drink.

“Besides, the rules are such that when I kiss somebody, it means I want to _be with them_ , so that is also a benefit. None of that confusing uncertainty,” he smiled.

“Huh,” said Arthur. “That actually makes sense.”

“It really does,” Merlin nodded, although his tone was sarcastic. “Now, my turn.”

He paused to take a deep breath, swallowed some more of his rum, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“When did you start cutting?”

Arthur started. It was a surprisingly straight-forward question. It’s not that Merlin usually beat around the bush anyway but Arthur didn’t actually expect him to ask in such an outright manner. He suddenly wanted to finish all of his drink in one go.

“Uh,” Arthur counted in his mind. “Four and a half years ago. How did your first kiss get stolen?”

Arthur finally was able to down most of his cherry rum, glad for the welcoming burn washing the lump in his throat away.

Merlin smirked at him, “Well aren’t _you_ obsessive about kissing.”

He fidgeted a little on the couch, bringing his fingers to circle the rim of his glass absentmindedly. “I was kind of bullied at school. Well, I suppose, who wasn’t.”

Arthur decided not to remark that _he_ certainly hadn’t been bullied. If anything, he was the one to mock and laugh at his schoolmates, always having been _the_ popular kid.

“Anyway, there were these three idiots who gave me a particularly hard time. At first, it was mostly innocent, just comments about my ears and clothes and such, you know how it is.”

Arthur certainly knew. He was almost sure that if he and Merlin were to be at the same school some years ago, Arthur would definitely take the opportunity to make fun of Merlin’s ridiculously endearing face. He doubted he’d have found it endearing back then, though.

“But then my ah, classmate borrowed my notes, and I completely forgot about the sketches I did in that notebook. To give you the idea, it was a very detailed drawing of a naked male body.” Merlin flushed deep crimson, fiddling with his glass.

Arthur would laugh if he wasn’t furrowing his brow with worry. He supposed the darkest part of the story was about to unravel.

“The rumour obviously flew around the school like a blast. To add to that, our town was really small, so basically the next day everyone believed I was hopelessly gay.” Merlin’s expression was sombre, the corners of his mouth tilting down.

“That is part of the reason why I’m not so keen on going back there, even for Christmas. I’m hoping one day I can get my mam to move or something,” he mumbled.

Arthur contemplated hugging Merlin, but just as he leaned forward, Merlin resumed talking.

“So, long story short, those three fuckers cornered me one day and, ah, decided to prove I was gay.”

Arthur tensed with his whole body, expecting the worst to come. He wanted to stop Merlin, tell him he didn’t have to, but something twisted inside him was drawn taut, _needing_ to hear what had happened.

Apparently, it was all written on his face because when Merlin looked up at him, he laughed.

“Oh, Arthur, it’s not _that_ bad! I mean, apart from the whole name-calling and threatening they did, and then when I told them to fuck off, one of them, uh, forcefully _kissed me_ to prove that _I_ was gay.”

Arthur gaped at him. _What?_

“Exactly,” Merlin giggled, taking in his incredulous expression. “It was so awkward, oh my God. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself so much, he tried to French kiss me. You should have seen the faces of his mates!”

Merlin broke into a fit of laughter, probably half of which was supplied by his obvious state of pissed. Arthur’s lips automatically stretched in a smile. He simply couldn’t resist it when hearing Merlin’s laugh. Or possibly, he was just as pissed.

Gradually, Merlin calmed down, occasionally hiccuping a giggle as he continued. “Yeah so, when that dickface drew back and pointed at me, claiming I was the _homosexual_ one, he-he, his friends just sort of stared at him.”

Arthur felt relieved, as if a stone had been lifted from his heart. He had been expecting something much, much worse.

“What happened, then?”

“Oh, the outrageous areshole who kissed me ended up dipping my head in the toilet _in retaliation_ , and after that they stopped nagging me altogether. For some reason. He-he,” Merlin snickered wickedly.

“Well, I suggest we drink for that!” Arthur proposed, raising his glass.

“For having my head dipped in the toilet?” Merlin raised an eyebrow, still smiling. Arthur scoffed.

“Shut up, you know what I mean, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin cackled like the little shit he was and clinked his glass to Arthur’s, proceeding to practically finish his cocktail in one long drink.

Arthur stared at his bobbing Adam’s apple, his own cherry mix forgotten.

“Anyway, you just spent two of your questions in one go, so I get to ask two in a row as well.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped. He was anticipating all sorts of questions regarding his self-destructive habits, keeping in line with Merlin’s first one. _Why did you start_ or _What was the reason_ or --

“What was your first kiss like and which was the best?” Merlin finished his drink, licking his lips and staring at Arthur’s through lazily half-lidded eyes.

“Uh,” said Arthur. Curiously, he was a little disappointed his predictions about the questions were inaccurate. Disappointed and very relieved.

“Is ‘uh’ some sort of magical word that kick-starts your brain function? Oh wait, that’s a question, never mind.” Merlin grinned.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at him because _a silent question didn’t count as a question._ Obviously.

“You start all of your answers with ‘uh’. Just curious. What if I discovered your robot button, I mean, I’d find a way to use it to my advantage,” Merlin added innocently. “Like, you know. I say ‘uh’ and you all of a sudden stop being so ignorant. That’s a dream I could entertain,” Merlin sighed comically, looking up.

Arthur resisted the urge to punch him in the shoulder.

“Well,” he said instead, ignoring the way Merlin snorted. “I only really have been kissed once in my life. Romantically kissed, I mean. Remember I told you about the boy my father caught me with? That was the time. I don’t even know if that counts, though. It was more of a drooling all over each other’s faces than anything.”

Arthur kept his gaze on the floor whilst he was speaking. After not hearing a reaction from Merlin, he lifted his eyes to look at him.

Merlin was staring back, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open.

“What.” barked Arthur, remembering not to make it into a question.

“It’s just,” Merlin shook his head. “That was you first kiss? Like, your only kiss?”

“Yes, God fucking dammit, Merlin, why are you looking at me like that?”

Melin seemed to take control over his face expression, hurriedly averting his eyes. Arthur continued looking at him intently, feeling like an utterly moronic _loser_. It wasn’t a sensation he enjoyed. Hurt pride flared up inside him, ready to lash out if Merlin were to start laughing at him.

At last, Merlin sneaked a glance at Arthur, although it seemed his eyes were magnetically drawn to Arthur’s lips now.

“Does that mean,” Merlin’s voice came out raspy so he cleared his throat, licking his own lips while staring at Arthur’s somewhat hungrily. “Does that mean you have never actually been properly kissed?”

Finally, he looked up to lock gazed with Arthur.

“Uh,” said Arthur automatically. Merlin didn’t even smile. “I don’t really know what you mean by ‘properly’ here, Merlin.”

Merlin remained unmoving for a moment, silently flicking his eyes between Arthur’s eyes and lips. It was unnerving in the best of ways.

Arthur directed his full attention to Merlin’s lips, now that he _was_ thinking about it. The thought of kissing Merlin has been in the back of his mind practically all the time, but now it seemed as if he actually had a chance of finally _doing_ it.

Merlin’s mouth was slightly open, his breath coming out barely audible over the flow of the music. It was the only thing that penetrated the electrified space between them. The lyrics formed into sentences that suddenly made sense to Arthur despite all the groggy bass going on in the background.

_You taste foreign and I know you can see the cord break away ‘cause tonight..._

“I feel like it’s time for your question, don’t you think?” Merlin apparently snapped out of whatever trance he’d fallen into, breaking their staring contest and leaning towards the coffee table to fuss with mixing new drinks.

A sharp pang of regret echoed through Arthur’s chest. He hoped his true emotions wouldn’t show on his face. Shrugging, his finished his cocktail, offering the glass to Merlin. Next time Arthur took an experimental sip, it tasted like two percent cherry juice and ninety-eight percent rum. He didn’t even mind.

“Frankly, I’m wondering...” Arthur licked his lips, chasing the sweet taste of cherry.

He didn’t fail to notice Merlin rapturously tracing the movement with his eyes. It was becoming irritating seeing how Merlin was _all stare and no action._

“ _I’m wondering,_ ” Arthur stressed. Merlin tore his gaze away from Arthur’s lips, _finally_ , to look him in the eye.

“Through the debris of your confused, hazy mind?” smirked Merlin, prompting Arthur to pout at him, which consequently diverted Merlin’s full attention back to his lips. Dammit.

“I was half-expecting you to ask me why did I start cutting,” Arthur blurted out, deciding to just go with it.

“Is that a question?”

“You have spent so many of your questions, Merlin, I can practically shoot all the seventeen left in a row now and be fair,” Arthur’s smile was nothing short of smug. “And no, the question is, I guess, why haven’t you asked me ‘why’?”

Arthur drank a quarter of his glass. He had better be prepared to hear the answer since he was brave enough to ask the question. Merlin sighed, his expression growing serious. He rubbed his forehead, drawing his hand away as he replied, looking straight at Arthur.

“Because I guess I already know that there is no ‘why’. It’s just a way of coping. An extremely unhealthy one, but a way of coping nonetheless. I read that it’s just like crying is for normal people --”

Arthur couldn’t help wincing at the ‘normal people’ bit. Merlin hurried to clarify.

“I don’t mean that people who self-harm are not ‘normal’. I just...Fuck, you know what I mean.,” Merlin looked desperate.

“It’s okay, Merlin. I don’t really think it’s normal, either,” Arthur admitted quietly.

“Well, that depends on what we define as ‘normal’, doesn’t it? But what I tried to say was, it’s a way of coping, the same as crying, except crying doesn’t involve the hazard of going paralyzed or brain-dead or, in fact, _dying_.” Merlin’s voice sounded strangely taut and heated, as it sometimes got when he was talking about something close to him, something personal.

Arthur felt slightly sick, hoping Merlin's talk wasn’t based on empirical experience. But at the same time, he wondered, not for the first time, why did Merlin react so calmly to Arthur’s self-destructive habits. Why didn’t he call him a weirdo or a freak or --

“I didn’t ask ‘why’ because I don’t think there is a particular reason. I mean, if there were, you could reason someone out of it, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” muttered Arthur. He never actually thought of it that way.

As much as he trusted Merlin, not feeling guilty or weak for showing genuine emotion, Arthur was growing uncomfortable with the conversation. He opted on casually changing the subject.

"So tell me, _Mer_ lin, how did a softie like you ever end up in the BDSM scene?" drawled Arthur, relaxed and dizzyingly lightheaded from his drink.

"Arthur," warned Merlin.

"No, no, I'm not saying you have to be a violent sadist to go into BDSM," clarified Arthur hurriedly. "It's just...how did you ever think of that?"

Merlin sighed and wriggled on the couch, getting more comfortable for _story telling time!_

"Well, when I was at Plymouth, I met this girl, Freya," he began. "We started dating after a while. She was the first person I ever dated."

Merlin eyes were dreamy and unfocused, from memories flooding his mind or intoxication -- it was hard to say.

"Freya was great. She was caring and kind and so beautiful," he paused and sneaked a look at Arthur. "And a little unstable."

Arthur felt an uncomfortable feeling prickling at his fingertips. Was Merlin implying Arthur was unstable too? What was that look for?

"Unstable how?" Arthur took a swig of his drink to mask his sudden nervousness.

"Well." Merlin chewed on his lip, glancing at Arthur every once in awhile from under his eyelashes. "She was incredibly talented, you know. Like, genius-level talented. But she had had a tough life and I guess it took its toll. She, um." Merlin paused again, looking unsure.

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me," Arthur assured.

"No, it's fine." Merlin took a deep breath and barrelled on. "She had abandonment issues? And it was like...If I missed her call or couldn't come over, she'd get, ah, upset."

Merlin fiddled with his drink.

"She would always wear all these bracelets, even when we had sex." He added out of nowhere, and _oh._ It dawned on Arthur.

"That's why you didn't freak out when..?" He asked quietly, slightly raising his arms.

"Yeah," nodded Merlin. "I mean, I didn't know about it until we had a fight over something utterly stupid. She stomped off to another room and I stayed behind, trying to cool off. When I found her, she was hysterical and," Merlin broke off, breathing loudly.

Arthur touched his hand on impulse, the alcohol losing his constant stiff control.

Merlin turned his palm up to squeeze Arthur's fingers.

"We had to get her to the A&E. Jesus, the police got involved because I was with her and they needed to clarify it wasn't domestic violence or anything." Merlin gulped his drink like a man dying of thirst.

"Is she okay?" Arthur asked tentatively.

"Well," Merlin smirked humourlessly. "She got expelled from college and forcibly admitted into a clinic. But she's alive, and that's what matters. I was really puzzled, though, after what happened, I mean. I researched everything I could on self-harm, trying to understand it or just..." He quietened.

"I hope she will be fine," he murmured.

"I hope so, too," Arthur added softly, caressing Merlin's warm wrist with his thumb.

"Anyway," Merlin shook his head a little, sitting up straighter. "Back to BDSM, yeah? First time we had sex, it was our sixth date," he grinned.

"Oh, a gentleman, I see," mused Arthur.

"There's nothing gentlemanly about waiting for the other person's consent, Arthur," frowned Merlin.

"No, no, I wasn't implying..." Arthur stopped, not knowing what _exactly_ he could say. It sort of looked like it was _precisely_ what he had been implying.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking down.

"You're such a dollophead, Arthur," sighed Merlin, tutting. "At least you are pretty," he added, shrugging his shoulder.

"Oi!" Arthur protested indignantly, clutching Merlin's fingers in retaliation. Merlin just flashed him an amiable smile before continuing.

"Freya was...not what I expected. In bed, I mean. Like I said, she was so gentle and cute, but she practically transformed into a beast. Like, like...a monster cat, with the clawing and biting and scratching."

Arthur downed his drink in one go and raised his glass at Merlin in a silent question. Merlin nodded, so Arthur topped both their glasses.

Merlin sipped at his drink before letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes, his fingers moving against Arthur's palm.

"It was so shocking...Not in a bad way, though. I hadn't even known I liked it before she showed it to me. It wasn't like most first times go, I suppose. It wasn't slow or careful. She literally just grabbed me, threw me on the bed and --" Merlin's eyes flew open, he looked at Arthur hastily. "Sorry, too much information. Um."

Arthur noticed Merlin's pupils were remotely dilated. His face was flushed and he was licking his lips at random intervals so they were bright red and glistening.

"Nah, it's fine," Arthur replied, his own voice sounding raspy and strangely low. "So she bit you and you became a vampire, I mean, into BDSM?" He tried to laugh it off, feeling heat start to bloom in his stomach.

Merlin chuckled. "She didn't _only_ bite me," he threw Arthur a flirty look, fluttering his eyelashes a little.

Okay, perhaps that was enough drinking for Merlin for one night.

"But yeah, with time, she showed me more, and I didn't just like it, I _loved_ it," Merlin closed his eyes again and extracted his hand out of Arthur's grip, bringing it to his flushed neck to rub at it slowly.

"Merlin, are you hot?" Arthur asked, rapturously watching Merlin shamelessly _touch himself._ On the _neck._

 _'Christ, Arthur, maybe it's time you slow down on the drinking as well,'_ he thought to himself, feeling his blood rush assiduously to his groin.

"You reckon?" Merlin turned to him, quirking a corner of his lips in a fucking _seductive_ smile.

On the spur of the moment, Merlin pushed up, shifted and draped himself over Arthur, straddling him and effectively trapping Arthur's hips with his thighs. They almost fell to the side with the momentum, swaying slightly until Arthur steadied Merlin's body with his hands, placing them firmly on his hipbones.

Arthur stared dumbfoundedly into Merlin's eyes. They were almost black, wide and wild. He felt heat coming off Merlin in waves. Arthur's cock started pulsing, hardening rapidly, and Arthur prayed to _God_ Merlin wouldn't notice.

 _Merlin, what is it with you and your weird habit of straddling me on this couch whenever you please,_ he tried to say, but only managed a broken, "Merlin..." before Merlin touched the back of his burning hot fingers to Arthur's cheek, and Arthur's ability to speak was reduced to letting out whispery gasps.

Merlin bared his teeth in a smile that looked breathtakingly predatory and leaned close to whisper in Arthur's ear, snaking his hand slowly down Arthur's chest to the hem of his shirt.

"You have _no_ idea how _good_ it feels, Arthur," Merlin practically moaned Arthur's name. His fingers wormed their way under Arthur's shirt, creeping back up his chest. "BDSM sex is great even with no strings attached, but when you feel for someone, unravel yourself completely and just let them take you and," Merlin's dug his nails into the tender skin of Arthur's chest and dragged them down, scratching lines into his chest as he groaned, " _mark_ you, give in completely..."

Arthur's breath hitched loudly at the sharp pain blooming under Merlin's fingertips. He let his head fall back, feeling Merlin's lips travel across his jaw, whispering, "It's wonderfully freeing, Arthur."

Arthur tried to remember how to breathe again when he felt Merlin's mouth at his bare throat. Merlin wasn't biting or even kissing him. He barely grazed his sharp teeth along the pulse point, pulling his lips back and inhaling deeply.

It seemed like an eternity passed, Arthur waiting impatiently for Merlin to sink his teeth into his neck, just fucking --

"Merlin," he moaned, not being able to take it anymore. His hips involuntarily hitched up, and Merlin instantly drew back, grabbing a handful of Arthur's hair and a fistful of his shirt, yanking him close.

"Don't." Merlin growled, his lips a hair away from Arthur's.

Merlin's grip on his strands was so vicious that Arthur winced. Merlin probably noticed it because he loosened his hold a little. Instead, he twisted the fabric in his left hand with such force Arthur thought Merlin might accidentally strangle him.

"The second you are twenty-one and free to do whatever the bloody hell you want," Merlin went back to whispering feverishly into his ear. "If you still want it, I will give it to you. I will take my time stretching you until you are begging me for it," Merlin licked his lips and his tongue grazed Arthur's earlobe, making another moan escape his throat. Merlin started rocking his hips shallowly, possibly without even knowing he was doing it.

"And then, when you are nice and ready and open for me, I will take your cock in my mouth and suck it, but I won't let you come, not yet." Merlin's hand in Arthur's hair was massaging his scalp, slowly, overwhelming Arthur with sensations.

He was breathing open-mouthed, eyes closed and _listening_ , listening to every word Merlin said, stealthily raising his knees higher and higher until Merlin slid forward.

They both moaned at the sudden contact of their clothed erections, the pressure sending sparks of pleasure through Arthur's body, but all too soon it was _not enough._

"Merlin," a sound akin to whimper made its way out of Arthur's mouth.

Arthur felt Merlin stiffen, probably trying to compose himself, but he knew how far Merlin was out of it when he apparently couldn't control the movements of his body, erratically rubbing his groin against Arthur's.

"Fffuck," Merlin whined, his fingers clutching at Arhtur's hair with a new force. "What the fuck are you doing to me, Arthur?"

Arthur couldn't reply, it was likely a rhetorical question anyway, he was too busy relishing in _finally_ the delightful friction. It wasn't enough, nowhere _near_ enough, but it was something, and Arthur was willing to take what he could get.

After a couple of minutes, Merlin steeled himself to stop moving, instead pressing down on Arthur so he couldn't thrust his hips up either.

"You sly little --" Merlin nipped at his neck in retaliation, which only made Arthur groan. He could feel his pants dampened with precome. It was uncomfortable and Arthur started to genuinely hate Merlin's stupid idealistic morals.

If he didn't know for a fact that Merlin would _obviously_ blame himself for _'making'_ Arthur 'do the sex' as if Arthur was a puppet with no free will until the magical number twenty-one appeared in his age column, he would flip them around and ravish Merlin's plump mouth before ravishing his body. But Arthur didn't want ridiculous, kind, overly-idealistic Merlin to feel bad because of sleeping with him. Those were the last feelings Arthur ever needed Merlin to associate him with. So he stayed where he was, trapped under Merlin's weight and practically mad with desire.

"Where was I?" Merlin twitched his fingers against Arthur's chest, his hand having stilled against the angry red marks under the fabric. "Oh yes." He looked at Arthur, eyes gleaming.

Arthur decided that Merlin's genius insanity took the path towards making Merlin a sexual maniac. With sadistic tendencies. In a good way.

"I won't let you come," Merlin was saying, this time looking straight at Arthur. "And you will just lay there, waiting until I'm satisfied with biting and licking all over your body, leaving souvenirs of myself behind for you to find for _weeks_ afterwards." He started petting Arthur's hair almost lovingly, tilting his head and smiling widely. "And you will behave like a good boy for me, wouldn't you, darling?"

"Yes," Arthur breathed, his whole body trembling now with the overpowering need.

Merlin released a shaky breath, and Arthur thought he might be more out of control himself than he was willing to let on.

"And _then,_ when you won't stop begging me to fuck you, almost sobbing with it," Merlin's nails dug into Arthur's clothed chest again, making him cry out with the intensity of sensations, "I will move you to face me, and I will fuck you so bloody hard, you will _scream_ my name, and the headboard will pound into the wall with the force of me _fucking you into the mattress,_ " Merlin closed his eyes and his hips jerked strongly against Arthur's cock again.

" _Please_ ," Arthur whined, unable to take this torture any more. He was drunk and hot and turned on out of his bloody mind. "Merlin, please, fuck, I'll do anything, just please, make me come, _Merlin._.." His hands gripping Merlin's hips here shaking so bad, he thought Merlin must feel vibrations through his body.

"I will make you come, Arthur," Merlin promised. "I will make you come so hard, you will get come on your _face_ , and then I will lick it off while --"

There was only so much Arthur could take. He roughly pushed Merlin away with one hand only enough for the other to hastily open the fly of his jeans and sneak his hand inside his boxers, taking himself in hand and stroking quickly.

"Arthur, what --" Merlin yelped, but then he saw where it was going, paused for a beat and then a smile creeped slowly on Merlin's lips.

"Oh," he mused. He leaned in to talk in Arthur's ear like the fucking libertine he truly was.

"That's it, Arthur. Unfortunately, I can't touch you, not yet, but just imagine how my lips would feel wrapped around your cock. I'd _love_ to suck you off, Jesus, I'd get on my knees right now and --"

" _Merlin,_ " Arthur choked, his voice taut. "Don't you fucking stop."

"-- and let you fuck my mouth the way you are fucking your hand right now, God, Arthur, I would strip down and ride myself on your cock until all I can feel is you --"

"Merlin, Merlin --" Arthur's litany of words mingled into incoherent sounds resembling Merlin's name. He was so, so close.

"Come for me, Arthur." Merlin whispered, giving a tiny lick to his neck, and Arthur did, the sound of his loud voice ringing through the room before he could bite it into his lip.

When he got down from his high, Arthur saw Merlin looking down curiously. Arthur followed his gaze and noticed his hand still wrapped around his softening cock, his fingers and Merlin's jeans stained with white.

"Uh," said Arthur.

"I wonder what it tastes like," said Merlin, his voice soft with fascination.

"Uh?" asked Arthur.

Merlin smiled at him. "Hopefully, I will find out sooner rather than later."

"Uh," confirmed Arthur.

Merlin laughed and ruffled his hair. "We should call it a night, Arthur. I have...business to take care of," Merlin grinned cheekily. "You are not invited."

Merlin got up and tugged Arthur along, going to Arthur's room. For a split second, Arthur hoped Merlin would change his mind, but as soon as they passed the threshold, Merlin turned around, pausing at the door.

"Good night, Arthur." He bit his lip as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

"Uh," Arthur pouted.

As soon as the door closed, he shed his trousers and boxers, getting wet tissues out of the drawer. Arthur cleaned himself up as best as he could, put on clean pants and laid down.

He tried really hard to not listen to Merlin's muffled moans that sounded suspiciously like Arthur's name floating from the other room.

~

The next morning would have been pretty awkward for the both of them if it weren’t for one hell of a hangover that loomed over the flat. They forgot to drink any water before going to sleep, so Arthur met Merlin when he walked into the kitchen, dying for a glass of something that wasn’t cherry juice.

Merlin welcomed him with a gloomy expression, silently placing a bottle of water on the table. Arthur drank all of it practically in one go.

Blessedly, there was no music playing aloud. Arthur’s head felt like a pail in a sadist drummer’s hands. As soon as he thought that, he decided Merlin’s weird associacion tendencies were finally rubbing off on him for sure.

They spent the day watching TV shows, mindlessly eating the greasiest food they could order since neither of them had the strength to cook anything.

By the time the sun started setting, Arthur didn’t feel like he was on the verge of either dying or throwing up, his headache having subsided as well. This new clarity of senses allowed him to understand how utterly screwed he and Merlin were. And not in a pleasant way.

Apparently, the realisation dawned on Merlin at the same time because he turned the TV volume down, albeit not muting in completely, the subtle chatter on the screen providing the background noise.

“We are not going to pretend this whole thing never happened,” he declared at the television.

Arthur hummed, not knowing how to reply otherwise. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, as far from each other as possible. Merlin hadn’t hugged him ‘good morning’ and generally avoided any contact with Arthur’s body the whole day.

Merlin didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he sighed, and Arthur recognised it as the breath Merlin usually took before starting to talk about a subject bothering him.

“You know I want you.”

“Yes, I think you made it strikingly obvious last night, Merlin,” Arthur smiled.

“You think this is funny?” Merlin turned to him, his expression surprisingly hurt. Arthur did a double-take, wondering if he’d missed anything.

“Well --”

“Shove your bullshit down you _well_ , Arthur!” Merlin’s loud voice tugged at Arthur’s mind, starting his headache anew.

“Merlin, what the fuck? Why are you yelling?” Arthur winced, bringing a hand to rub at his temple.

Merlin huffed like a mad bull, his brows drawn tightly together.

“Because you are _infuriating._ ” Thankfully, Merlin lowered the volume, talking in rapid angry staccatos, punctuating every sentence. “It takes every ounce of my self-control not to jump you and fucking devour you at any given second, in addition to having to deal with everyday stress from uni and work, and you are fucking _laughing at me._ ”

Arthur sputtered.

“I’m not bloody _laughing at you,_ Merlin, I’m laughing at your ridiculous rules that _you established yourself_ so if you want to own up to it, be my fucking guest but don’t make me the douchebag here, yeah?”

“Oh, that’s right, _I’m_ the ridiculous one here,” Merlin went on, agitated. “The one who prances around being all shiny and _insufferable_ , showing off his majestic fucking beauty, teasing me with _something I can’t have,_ knowing perfectly what it does to me.”

Arthur felt completely lost.

“Merlin, I’m not exactly sure what you are implying here,” he began carefully, his own irritation only fueled by his inability to understand what the fuck Merlin was going on about.

“I’m not implying, Arthur, I’m telling you directly what a fucking twat you are for teasing me deliberately, dangling a fucking forbidden fruit in front of my face every stupid fucking day!”

Arthur gulped for breath like a fish, opening and closing his mouth, not knowing how to even reply to such an outstanding atrocity.

“Are you blaming _me_?” he managed finally, his voice coming out as an embarrassingly high-pitched. “What the ever-living fuck, Merlin! I’m not the one refusing to have any sort of relationship because of some idiotic idealistic morals, frankly --”

“You are my friend!” shouted Merlin, bolting up from the couch to hover over Arthur. “I don’t want you to think you have to sleep with me or _have sex with me_ just because I’m helping you out, for fuck’s sakes, Arthur, put yourself in my shoes!”

“No, thank you, Merlin, I think your shoes are pretty hot with all the steaming piles of bullshit you are yelling from,” Arthur said, perfectly calm, looking up at Merlin from where he sat with his arms crossed.

“Exactly!” Merlin pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur. It would have been hilarious if Arthur weren’t so close to snapping. “My shoes are pretty fucking uncomfortable, and you are not making it easier!”

“Merlin,” Arthur pressed his lips tight, trying to stay composed although he was already shaking with the controlled rage. “I still don’t understand why the fuck you are shouting at me. What the hell did I ever do? You think I’d only have sex with you because I’m feeling obligated? Fucking _really_? Is that what you take me for?”

Merlin’s eyes bulged out. It was his turn to resemble a fish by not getting the words out.

After a moment, he collapsed back on the sofa, covering his face with a hand. Arthur realised Merlin was _facepalming at him._

“Arthur,” Merlin began in a low tired voice. “First of all, you just said there is a possibility of you having sex with me because you’re feeling obligated.”

Arthur quickly reviewed what he’d said, ready to protest.

“No, just,” Merlin raised a hand. “Just listen to me. I really, really like you. I am doing what I’m doing not because of your fucking money, as I’ve already said. Not because I’m playing Mother Theresa. You are not a fucking charity case to me, you are _my friend"  
_

_‘Of course I’m not a fucking charity case,’_ Arthur practically felt the words fumbling out but Merlin made a sign for him to stay silent.

“Let me finish. You are arrogant and _my God,_ are you infuriating, and you have this weird thing going on where your self-deprecation or uncertainty, whatever it is, result in you mindlessly judging other people. All of that, by all means, makes you a douchebag.”

Merlin took his hand away from his face to look at Arthur, sincerity in his eyes making Arthur feel wrong-footed all of a sudden.

“But you are also a good person. Deep down, you are a generous, kind man, Arthur. You don’t deserve the treatment you’ve had. And you don’t deserve me making advances at you while you have _no choice_ but to reciprocate. You can’t exactly _get away_ from me.”

“I don’t want to get away from you,” Arthur replied, his chest heaving with desperate breaths.

“Did you want to get away from Michael?” Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur paused for a beat.

“This is completely different, Merlin,” he frowned.

“It’s not.”

“It is. Michael pretty much ignored me all the time, and when he didn’t, he either yelled at me or asked me to get lost for a couple of days --”

“And yet you still fell in love with him,” Merlin interrupted.

“I wouldn’t exactly call that _love_ \--”

“You told me you have been perfectly happy back when you tried to drown yourself --”

“That was an accident.” Arthur piped in.

“Cut the crap, Arthur! You _said_ you were perfectly happy, and you _kissed_ him. That is pretty much all there is to say on the subject of your infatuation.”

“Merlin,” Arthur growled. He was incredibly close to bursting. He didn’t want to talk about Michael, he didn’t want to remember his past, it was all _fucking irrelevant anyway, what was Merlin even going on about_ \--

“You are right not to call it ‘love’. What was it then, Arthur?”

Merlin seemed to wait for him to actually answer that. Arthur was racking his brain, trying to come up with an explanation and _failed._

After a moment, Merlin seemed to decide to reply for him.

“It’s simply a means of survival, Arthur. Like a Stockholm Syndrome. You didn’t have a choice. You fell for him because it was _easier_ that way. And what if he _had_ reciprocated? What then?”

Arthur still didn’t have anything to say in response. His headache seemed to disappear, replaced by a strange feeling. It was like the reality was collapsing on itself around him. He had never given his feelings a second thought, always too busy trying to hold his head above the waterline.

Now that Merlin was spelling it out for him, Arthur felt as if somebody was taking him apart limb by limb, layer by layer, baring him raw and making him watch.

A long minute passed without Arthur saying anything. Merlin picked up the monologue again.

“Exactly. Do you understand it now, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded, numb, staring blankly at the floor.

“I don’t want that. I want you to know that I am your friend. If you want to be more, _once you have a choice_ , I will gladly accept. But until then, Arthur, the rules have to stay. I don’t want to be another Michael.”

Arthur felt Merlin’s fingers touch his hand still clutched around his own shoulder. Merlin pried his arms off his chest, setting them down. Arthur didn’t resist, robotically pliant.

“I don’t want you to like me because of what I’m doing. I want you to like me for _me._ And you can’t do it until you have a choice to _not_ like me.”

Arthur hands were limp on his lap, one palm slowly caressed Merlin’s long fingers. His eyes fell on his bare arms since Arthur hadn’t put the hoodie back on from where he discarded it last night.

He was sitting in a red t-shirt and grey sweatpants, the lines on his arms contrasting against the material of his trousers, highlighted by the deep crimson of his shirt.

“I felt like I didn’t have any control.”

“What?” Merlin asked softly.

“I felt like I didn’t have any control,” Arthur repeated, slowly licking his dry lips. “That’s why I started cutting. My whole life has been planned out for me only to crash at once. I didn’t know what to do and I felt like I was losing it.”

Merlin delicately picked up Arthur's hand, holding it between his palms. Arthur tentatively intertwined their fingers. Merlin squeezed his hold reassuringly. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Merlin watching him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, Merlin disentangled one of his hands, bringing his fingers to brush lightly across Arthur’s scars.

“You don’t need to do this.”

Arthur’s lips quirked automatically in a bitter smile. _Of course he needed to._ He didn’t know how to stop, he didn’t _want_ to stop, not when it helped him to gain some of the desired control back.

“You don’t need to do this, Arthur,” Merlin insisted quietly, as if reading his mind. “You have all the power over yourself, over your life. Sure, you can use it for self-destruction, and there is nobody to stop you because _you have all the control._ Essentially. Nobody can take that away. Not your Father, not Michael, and certainly not me. You are the only one to decide what to do, you _do_ have a choice.”

“He almost did,” said Arthur in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat, realising he was trembling all over. “My Father. He still can, if he finds me --”

“But he didn’t,” gently argued Merlin. “See? You are here. You chose to fight. You chose not to give up, and that’s what control _means._ It’s the freedom to make your own decisions, rising above the circumstances, turning the situation in your favour.”

Merlin lifted his hand from Arthur’s forearm to touch his cheek, prompting Arthur to look him in the eyes.

“And he is not going to take you away. I will keep you safe for as long as I have to because I am your friend. But I am not about to take away your right to choose either. You are too trusting, Arthur, too vulnerable like this. I’m not going to take advantage of that. You don’t deserve it. When it’s all over, I will still be here, and if you choose to stay with me, it will be _your_ decision. Not because there is no other way, not because you have to. I’m giving you the ultimate control here.”

Merlin’s eyes were brimming with tears, Arthur realised. He was still trying to process how they came from shouting at each other angrily to _this,_ to Merlin holding his chin and Arthur holding his breath.

“Thank you,” he managed. His voice sounded equally as broken as he was feeling inside. Merlin gingerly gathered him in his arms, as if afraid Arthur might shatter into million pieces from one careless gesture.

Arthur felt that he probably would.

“You don’t need to thank me, my friendship is not a favour,” Merlin whispered, familiarly climbing into his lap. Arthur wrapped his hands around Merlin, holding him close, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“You are awfully smart for your age, Merlin,” Arthur murmured. He felt Merlin smiling against his ear.

“And you are mysteriously silly for a boy with such a big head,” he retorted, affectionately petting Arthur’s hair.

Arthur huffed out a laugh. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

An absolute silence fell in the room, their slowing breathing mingling with the distant sound of the rain outside.

Arthur realised there was something else that was different. After thinking about it, he realised the ever-present buzz under his skin, the craving for writing _control_ all over his body using a sharp blade was gone.

Perhaps, it was only temporarily. Perhaps, it would return -- he couldn’t be sure.

But at that moment he was perfectly content. _Perfectly happy._

He shook off the thought as soon as it flashed across his mind. No, he wasn’t perfectly happy. He was still unable to face his Father without a threat of being locked up looming over him. He was still unable to get Merlin to kiss him because he wasn’t Merlin’s _boyfriend._ He couldn’t make Merlin moan between the sheets because Merlin insisted on being friends. For now.

So no, Arthur wasn’t perfectly happy.

However, with Merlin’s warm body draped over him like a security blanket, with a promise of something more to come, with the possibility of getting to have Merlin in less than three months all to himself, Arthur was content enough to tilt his head back, resting it on the couch.

Merlin snuggled into his neck, arranging himself comfortably, and proceeded to fall asleep. Arthur laughed soundlessly at his mirthful sleeping face before shutting his own eyes and following Merlin suit into the kingdom of Morpheus.

Or whatever the hell Merlin used to call it, bidding Arthur good night.

Probably because the last thing on Arthur’s mind was the word ‘kingdom,’ he dreamt of being an ‘entitled prat’ whereas Merlin accompanied him as a cheeky boy who painted skies in rainbow colours, reaching with his hands to touch the clouds from where he was sitting on his enormous flying dragon.

Merlin woke up briefly to see Arthur smiling in his sleep. He watched his face for a while, tracing his fingers along Arthur’s cheek bones, his eyelashes, his lips.

Sighing, Merlin pecked Arthur on the nose and went back to sleep on his shoulder.

 _Like a drooling angel,_ Merlin snorted to himself before falling asleep again.

 

~May, June 2013

 

Arthur stopped passive-aggressively objecting to the rules Merlin had set for them after their memorable talk.

Instead, he concentrated on noticing _things_ about Merlin. He tried to distance himself from the situation he was in, having no better choice but to put up with Merlin for the time being. He tried to treat it as if he had the opportunity to leave if he wanted to.

After all, in little more than two months, he would be able to act as he saw fit. The prospect unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

Arthur had spent so many years feeling like he was completely stripped of free will, he could hardly remember what it was like to not be hiding, not running, not looking over his shoulder everywhere he went.

He forgot how it felt when nothing was looming over him, no promise of doom eating him up from the inside every second. The potential freedom was overwhelming. Sometimes, Arthur lay in bed, sleepless, trying to imagine what he was going to do when July came.

First, he’d pay the money to Michal. No, absurd, Michael could wait. He’d call Gaius first. Talk with Morgana.

Although, what would he say..?

No, thought Arthur, he’d start with getting the money from his bank account and looking for a way to continue his education. But what did he want to study..? Who was he going to be?

He spent endless hours awake, passing out into a mindless slumber only to be awakened by loud music playing from the speakers all over the flat.

After two weeks, Arthur grudgingly asked Merlin to make the morning playlists himself since Arthur was starting to hate his beloved classics he had composed lists of. At least if it were Merlin’s electronic gibberish blasting everywhere, Arthur could allow himself to feel contempt for it with all his heart.

At times, Arthur’s thoughts wouldn’t let him calm down at all, and then the old desperate buzz for _control_ would run through his body, making his hands shake so violently, he couldn’t press the right keys on the piano.

Perhaps Merlin had noticed that or perhaps it was just a pre-emptive measure, but one afternoon Arthur found a piece of paper tucked into the case with his fillet knife.

 _Arthur, you don’t need to do this, remember? You might feel like you do, but it’s only the habit talking. You don’t NEED to cut your skin to feel better. That’s just nonsense, don’t you think? Your body wouldn’t want you to do that, and what you are feeling right now is a craving. Addiction is a powerful thing :(_  
_I googled some stuff and these are said to be the most helpful alternatives to self-harm._  
_● Press some ice cubes to your skin. I don’t exactly know what it does, but everyone is recommending it. There is ice in the freezer :)_  
_● Dance to music or exercise. I can’t picture you dancing like a fairy to your classical pieces, Arthur (okay lies, I actually can :P), but there is a playlist “Dance Arthur Dance” I made for you, find it in the playlists folder and turn the volume up!_  
_● Paint on yourself. I like this one! Just be careful of what you are using to do it. DO NOT USE MY INK OR OIL PAINT. Actually just use permanent pens or watercolours :) Don’t put it in your mouth, Arthur! :P_  
_● Count up to ten getting louder until you are screaming. It seems like it could work :)_  
_● Make as many words out of your full name as possible. I don’t know your full name but I already made one of your first name: Art! Hehehe ;)_  
_● Cook and paint your nails! Not necessarily in that order :)_  
_● Trace your hand on a piece of paper: on your thumb, write something you like to look at; on your index finger, write something you like to touch; on your middle finger, write your favorite scent; on your ring finger, write something you like the taste of; on your pinky finger, write something you like to listen to; on your palm, write something you like about yourself._  
_● Remember that I care about you, Arthur. I’m always here for you. Pick up your phone and send me a text!_

Merlin hadn’t taken the knife away thus leaving yet another choice to Arthur. For some reason, it frustrated him to no end.

Probably because once Arthur reached for his trusty knife only to find the hidden list there, he realised he couldn’t take the _easy_ path anymore. It felt like Merlin was _making_ him resist the self-destructive urges although Arthur knew that wasn’t true. He did know Merlin was simply trying to help him, show him a different way to deal with stress, but it was just _so fucking frustrating._

So Arthur opted for taking a blank piece of paper he found among Merlin’s mess on the table, tracing his own hand on it like one of the bullets in the list suggested and proceeded to follow the instructions, scribbling angrily into the paper. He decided to break the system and start with the pinkie, out of pure spite.

 _Pinkee: Anything that doesn’t involve Merlin’s atrocious rubbish of noise he calls music._  
_Ring finger: MEAT._  
_Middle finger: FRYING MEAT._  
_Index finger:_

Arthur contemplated writing _my cock_ but thought he might be taking this too far. After all, Merlin had taken his time to find all these ridiculous suggestions and he probably had to filter through a lot to compile this list...

_Index finger: Merlin  
Thumb: Merlin_

His initial intent was to stick this paper to Merlin’s forehead while he slept was now obviously discarded. Arthur decided to chuck the irony aside and crossed out what he’d written before, making a new list.

 _Pinkie: Merlin humming ‘Song From A Secret Garden’_  
_Ring finger: Merlin’s art project blueberry jam_  
_Middle finger: Merlin’s skin_  
_Index finger: Merlin_  
_Thumb: Merlin’s lips_

He paused at the palm, scoffing at the thought of writing _Merlin being my friend._ This was just overdoing this. In the end, he went with something that felt incredibly right and genuine.

_If there is anything good enough about me, it is strength. I am strong enough to do this. I am strong enough to make it through._

Arthur stared at the list blankly for a moment before crumpling it and throwing it onto the floor to put into the rubbish later. He couldn’t be arsed to do it now, still shaking, the urges not having subsided at all.

Arthur went in the kitchen with a frown. He yanked the freezer open, getting out the ice. Pressing his lips together, Arthur looked skeptically at the cubes. Well, at least there was no one around watching him do stupid stuff like press frozen water to his arms.

At first, Arthur didn’t feel anything other than the expected sensation of ice pressed to skin. However, gradually the place he was pressing the pieces to started to go numb, almost as much as the area around fresh wounds would if he were to press the blade to this hand instead.

By the time the ice melted away, leaving dripping traces in its wake, Arthur couldn’t feel the urgent buzz under his skin so sharply. His arm prickled, the fingers that have been holding the cube were completely senseless.

It brought a weird sort of relief.

Startled by the revelation, Arthur repeated the process, using up almost all of the ice. He made sure to refill the container with water and put it back in the freezer to have something for the next time.

_Next time._

Arthur hoped it wouldn’t come, all the while too certain it would. He sighed, burying his hands in his hair. Who would have thought getting rid of this habit would be so hard.

He went back to retrieve Merlin’s list, carefully tucking it back into his knife’s case again. Till the next time.

When Arthur went for the ice three days later, he found his creased drawing of a hand stuck to the ice in the freezer. Atop of it, there was a bright pink post-it note.

_I am so proud of you, Arthur._

_P.S. Stop staring at my lips, it’s distracting :)_

~

The new things Arthur noticed about Merlin included but were not limited to: the hilarious way Merlin sneezed; his irritating habit of talking back to _everything_ Arthur had to say; his tendency to heat up the food in the microwave until it is scalding hot and wait for it to cool down to a reasonable temperature instead of simply reducing the time in the first place; how beautiful his profile was when he concentrated while painting; the mess he left after himself _everywhere_ ; how melancholically cheerful his notes had become, now containing more of Merlin’s associations he had on Arthur’s account.

It was as if Merlin tried to memorize every little one of his details, down to the shade of Arthur’s skin.

At the end of May, Arthur performed the piece he had been learning for weeks. Merlin had sat down, curious and smiling, only to jolt up not even halfway through the music and tell Arthur to hold up. After scrambling around and arranging his easel, he demanded Arthur play the same piece from the very beginning. Arthur didn’t ask any questions, just went along with it.

From that point on, Merlin would ask Arthur to play whilst he was working on the canvas, not letting Arthur see the unfinished painting.

He didn’t particularly mind, respecting Merlin’s personal space and artistic peculiarities.

By the time June came round, Merlin spent less and less time at home, ears deep in his graduation projects. He explained to Arthur that he was working on them in the art department studio at his uni.

Arthur tried not to pout at Merlin visibly, often having to spend numerous days alone in the flat when Merlin started practically living in that damned studio. Arthur smiled when he got random text messages from Merlin, replying instantly and knowing it would probably take Merlin another six hours to get back to him.

On the rare days that Merlin stayed home for more than three hours at a time, they resumed their tandem masterpiece, Arthur accompanying Merlin’s boisterous inspiration by playing the piano.

At the beginning of July, Merlin stumbled through the threshold of their flat and passed out in front of Arthur’s shocked eyes. That was the cue to make Merlin spend a week recovering from exhaustion.

Arthur played for him, cooked the food, made Merlin camomile tea and cuddled with him on the sofa. He put up a front for Merlin, assuring him everything was fine.

Fortunately, it worked, and Merlin never got to learn about the overpowering anxiety Arthur was perpetually feeling, the paralyzing terror of having soon to come out of the secure shadow haunting his conscience as dreams when he managed to sleep and as a constant litany of thoughts when he was awake.

Arthur tried to concentrate on Merlin, remind himself that he had a constant to hold on to in any turn of events. However, Merlin was always tired and hardly responsive lately. Arthur brushed it off as stress, rationally understanding the pressure Merlin was under.

But some ugly part of him nagged that Merlin was tired of _him,_ tired of dealing with Arthur, drained after these long eight months. It was unsettling, depressing, so Arthur tried to get rid of those thoughts but the more time passed, the more distant Merlin was becoming.

Or so Arthur thought.

As a desperate measure, he decided to cook a surprise dinner. Arthur carefully made sure Merlin would be coming home that night. He worked out a plan, made a run for ingredients to a 24-hour shop two days prior and hoped they could relax a little and talk over the three course meal Arthur was going to prepare.

He also wanted to ask Merlin if he could stay with him for more than the ten upcoming days left until his Birthday.

~Monday, 15th of July 2013

Merlin had been caught up in his graduation projects for the whole previous week. He barely spent any time at home and by the looks of deep dark circles under his eyes, was hardly sleeping, too.

When he did come home, it was to work on his final assignment that was due to Wednesday, 17th of July. Merlin had spent about a month creating it. From what Arthur gathered, it was some sort of a grand paper mosaic, the final piece being a giant illustration all done in coffee.

Arthur didn’t quite understand why it needed to be painted that way or what the art piece was about but he fully realised how important it was. The going-on canvas was usually lying on the kitchen table, covered with a plastic shield. Arthur made sure to be utterly careful as to not accidentally fuck it up.

As the due date approached, Merlin was becoming more and more snappy, irritated and short-tempered. It was so different from his usual carefree behaviour. Arthur couldn’t shake off the feeling of guilt, as if it was somehow his fault. Rationally, he knew Merlin was simply under a lot of stress, however it didn’t help when Merlin snarled at him every time Arthur tried to joke in an attempt to lighten up Merlin’s mood.

On one memorable occasion, Merlin must have noticed how Arthur’s face fell after another snappy comeback directed his way. Merlin sighed, covering his face with his palms. He walked up to Arthur and hugged him, murmuring an apology into his ear. _‘After Monday, it’ll all be over, Arthur, I promise,’_ he had said. Arthur felt a little bit better.

Merlin texted Arthur, saying he was going to be home early that night. He had finally finished all the preparations at the studio, the final piece was practically done.

_How about we watch something and relax a little? :) I’ve been a douche, but I promise I’ll make it up to you! Hehe x_

Arthur stared at the text message, biting his lip. He got an idea.

He decided to cook Merlin’s favourite dish, creamy garlic broccoli. It was also fortunate that it didn’t need much to make it, only two ingredients. Arthur wanted to spend as little time in the kitchen as possible, the hazardous close proximity to Merlin’s final piece making him insanely nervous.

Luckily, they had all the needed components of the meal. Arthur mindfully side-stepped the kitchen table, going to the fridge. He took out fresh broccoli, found the garlic in the cupboard along with one of Merlin’s notes. _What garlic is to salad, insanity is to art. — Augustus Saint-Gaudens._

Arthur smiled. The note must have been lying there for a long time since Merlin apparently hadn’t had enough time this week to bother with hiding them in places.

Arthur laid out all he would need to cook the dish on the kitchen counter. Upon a second thought, he went back into the living room, getting a transparent veil Merlin had used to cover the couch.

He returned to the kitchen, placing the veil over the table, additionally protecting Merlin’s work. Arthur didn’t want to risk any accidents.

He started with boiling the water for broccoli. While it was going, he chopped up the vegetable, slowly and meticulously. Then he turned the food processor on, feeding it cloves of garlic to make it into hummus. The motions were familiarly automatic because it was about the hundredth time Arthur was making this. After he had discovered the recipe three months ago, Merlin kept enthusiastically buying heaps of broccoli and garlic, whining at Arthur to _‘please cook that thing.’_

Arthur smiled to himself as he thought about the pleased grin on Merlin’s face when he discovered Arthur had cooked his favourite.

The food processor was buzzing greedily, blending the garlic into a consistent texture. Arthur joined in, humming Schubert’s _Serenade_ under his breath. He kept his hand on top of the machine, feeling the vibrations. His fingers twitched slightly in rhythm with music murmuring in his throat.

The food processor coughed, shuddering. Arthur raised an eyebrow at it, shaking the machine slightly. Not only that effective gesture didn’t stop anything, it seemingly made the processor mad.

The usual second setting on the display suddenly jumped to sixth, resulting in the device jumping on the counter erratically. Arthur pressed his hand down to keep the cap on so the mashed garlic wouldn’t spill everywhere.

He snaked the other hand around to paw for the socket, trying to cut the power off. Just as he was about to pull the plug, the food processor jolted, hard, hitting Arthur in the chin.

With a loud _ow_ , Arthur stumbled back, sharp pain instantly darkening his vision. He felt the soles of his feet step onto something, realising it was a hanging end of the cover he had put over Merlin’s art.

Arthur jerked around, effectively tangling himself in the damned cover. He accidentally dragged it off, all but falling back against the oven where the water was boiling ferociously.

The oven shook from the force of the intact. Arthur turned around just in time to catch the tilting pot. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any gloves on and the metal was scalding on his fingers.

He quickly stepped aside, narrowly avoiding the hot liquid spilling all over him. At the same time, the cap of the food processor finally flew off, resulting in a garlic shower filling the air.

Arthur cursed loudly, reaching to pull the cable. When he finally managed it, he was rewarded with a sharp jolt of electricity running through his body.

After a shocking second, Arthur looked down to see that he somehow managed to untangle himself from the mess of a plastic cover that was soaked in water.

He guessed it was his lucky day. From what he knew about the laws of physics, one leg still trapped in that material -- and he would have been dead.

He released a shaky breath, steadying his pulse. It picked up the pace anew when Arthur’s eyes fell on the table.

Naturally, when he has yanked the additional cover, it caught a corner of the initial protective shield Merlin had laid over his work.

No, no, no, no, _no!_

Arthur hastily rushed to the table, hoping against hope the piece was safe.

It was a miserable sight. Brown shapeless stains bloomed all over the canvas where the splashes of hot water had landed. The sticky mixture of garlic were droplets flourishing the picture.

Arthur had never seen the art because Merlin asked him not to peek out of fear to somehow jinx it. And now, he couldn’t even understand what the drawing was supposed to have been, the pattern irrevocably broken.

Arthur couldn’t get enough breath in his lungs. He practically slumped over the table, clutching at the edges to keep himself from falling.

The traitorous _O Fortuna_ deafened him with a sudden wave, inevitably bringing along the memories of his Father telling him to pack for the _hospital._

Arthur tried to push it out of his mind, concentrate on what to do about the mess.

A freezing feeling of dread seemed to paralyze his brain. Nothing could be done. He had fucked up a whole _month_ of Merlin’s work, his fucking _graduation project,_ oh God, Merlin would never have enough time to make it now, this piece was the final detail of a greater project, and Arthur fucked it up, _he fucked it all up…_

This was just like him, wasn’t it. Making messes wherever he went, dragging everyone around along with him. Being a failure of a son, a failure of a friend, a _failure --_

_Don’t you dare fucking cry._

Arthur pressed shaking palms into his prickling eyes. Crying wasn’t going to help anything.

_Fucking STOP._

Thankfully, Arthur had always been solution-oriented. He considered his options.

The guilt was overwhelming. He was sorry, _so sorry_ , he wanted to scratch at his skin for being such a fucking disappointment, bleed the apology out of his veins all over the floor. Obviously, that wasn’t the solution. The added mess of it would only enrage Merlin further.

Arthur contemplated packing his bag and leaving, the only way out of the disaster was _eliminating the cause._ Eliminating himself from Merlin’s life, that would probably be best.

But he realised what that would look like. A coward fleeting from the crime scene.

No, he was going to stay, he was going to face Merlin and see for himself the grave consequences of his actions. He was going to take the full responsibility, however terrifying that was.

Arthur couldn’t imagine Merlin’s reaction. Frankly, he didn’t want to imagine.

He started cleaning the surfaces numbly, his motions robotic. After getting rid of the mess the best he could, Arthur stood beside the table, staring blankly at the destroyed paper.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there before his legs fell asleep. Arthur decided to go pack his bag in advance, certain that Merlin was going to kick him out.

After all, there was no point in Arthur staying, his was birthday coming up in less than a week. He almost burst into tears, thinking of how he had made big plans for the celebration. How he had been anticipating the feel of Merlin’s naked body against his once again.

Now, it all was hopeless. He had wrecked everything.

Arthur tried not to think about the possibility of Merlin failing his graduation. About the fact that he had basically just ruined Merlin’s whole future.

He tried not to think about it and _failed._

In the end, Arthur decided to postpone packing. He didn’t want Merlin to think he was going to run off. He would at least accept his fall with dignity.

To calm down his nerves, Arthur went to play the piano. Alas, his fingers were shaking, his mind racing, and after numerous _failed_ attempts to get even the easiest pieces right, Arthur gave up.

He hung his head low, feeling despicable wetness streaming down his cheeks. _By God_ , he was _pathetic._

His mind wandered to the knife, safely tucked into its case in the bag. It would be so easy to fish it out, unsheathe the blade and punish himself for being such a _fucked up mess,_ to carve an apology into his skin.

_Too easy._

Arthur wasn’t going to let himself off the hook so simply. He made himself sit in front of the piano quietly, the rush of angry self-deprecating sentences hurting him more than any blade ever could.

When he heard the buzz of the intercom, Arthur wiped the tears off, going into the bathroom and splashing his face with cold water. He went into the living room just in time to see Merlin’s tired but smiling face greeting him cheerfully.

Arthur felt a sob coming up in his throat. He swallowed tightly to keep it down, reaching deep inside himself to tug on the remains of his drilled-in self-control.

“Hey, Arthur, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Merlin’s brow furrowed in worry as he took Arthur in.

“Merlin.” Arthur managed, his voice breaking. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. _Get a fucking grip, Arthur,_ he cursed mentally.

Arthur realised he had been staring in the direction of the kitchen when Merlin followed his gaze. Instantly, Merlin’s expression turned from concerned to dreadful.

“Arthur,” he began slowly, careful, locking his gaze with Arthur’s. “What happened?”

Arthur tried to get the words out, he really did, but the lump in his throat just _wouldn't go away._ He gestured at the kitchen door, shaking his head, trying to communicate _I fucked up, I’m so sorry, Merlin, I made a fucking irreparable mess, I’m so, so, so sorry --_

In a flash, Merlin darted to the kitchen. Arthur stayed where he was, silent, shaking violently all over. His teeth were clacking as if he was terribly cold. Although, if someone said he was frozen with fear, they wouldn’t be wrong.

After a minute that seemed like an eternity, Merlin slowly walked out of the kitchen, clinging to the wall. He breathed with an open mouth, his inhales sounding like wheezes.

Arthur saw Merlin’s fingers dig into the wooden surface where his palm was pressed into the doorframe.

“Merlin, I…” Arthur tried, barely audible.

Merlin cut him off, throwing his hand forward in a ‘stop’ gesture. He continued to lean on the wall, mute, practically folded in two.

Arthur couldn’t see his face. He was somewhat glad he couldn’t -- he doubted he would be able to survive the bitter disappointment that must have been written there. Arthur could deal with anger or rage or even contempt but he knew, if he were to look in Merlin’s eyes, there was likely only hurt and defeat he would find.

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur whispered, his eyes stinging anew.

Merlin didn’t say anything.

“Merlin, _please_ …” Arthur’s voice pitched on the plea, breaking the dam and letting his tears pour freely down his face.

He didn’t really know what he was pleading. For Merlin to forgive him, for Merlin to shout at him or punch him or _do something,_ just not stand there listlessly like a broken wind-up doll.

Long seconds stretched out merging into minutes, the absolute silence in the room interrupted only by Arthur’s choking sobs and Merlin’s ragged breathing.

Arthur bit into his fist to stop from crying aloud.

Finally, Merlin raised his face to look at him. His expression was stone cold, blotches of red painting his skin.

“I can’t deal with this right now, Arthur,” he said in a perfectly controlled voice.

He crossed the space to his room, emerging after a moment with a large rectangle-shaped object covered with a white sheet in his hands, picked up his rucksack from where he had dropped it on the floor near the front door and walked out of the flat.

Just like that, he was gone.

Arthur was left alone in the empty room, the absence of sound crushing him. He fell down on the floor, limp.

After some time, he realised the persistent noise he was hearing was his own quiet howling.

~Tuesday, 16th of July.

Arthur opened his eyes. It took him a second to realise he was staring at the ceiling of the living room.

Sluggishly, he heaved himself marginally upright and glanced around.

It seemed Merlin wasn’t anywhere in the flat.

Arthur collapsed back on the floor.

~Wednesday, 17th of July.

Arthur crawled into his bedroom to retrace his phone.

No incoming calls, no messages.

He tried dialing Merlin’s number, but only heard Merlin’s cheerful voice telling him to leave a message after the beep.

On the one hundred thirty-sixth time, Arthur’s phone battery died. He connected it to the charger before falling face-first onto the bed.

~Thursday, 18th of July.

Arthur sat in the shower under the spray until the water turned from burning hot to icy. He shivered when he got out of the bathroom, haphazardly drying himself off and putting on his leopard hoodie.

He went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, dying of thirst.

He drank a whole litre of it, staring at the destroyed artwork on the table.

Arthur ended up puking all of it back up, dry heaving above the toilet, cringing with disgust at himself.

~Friday, 19th of July.

_Arthur, everything is okay, don’t worry. I’ve made the show and passed my final exam :) The graduation ceremony is next Friday and you are officially invited! I’m coming home x_

Arthur’s phone buzzed with a text message into the hollow silence of the empty flat.

 

  
Merlin stumbled out of his Art Department building, clutching a cylinder case with his final project to his chest.

A sweet rush of chilly night air greeted him happily. Merlin smiled.

It was only four days left until Arthur’s birthday. Four days of waiting was nothing compared to all the months Merlin had already waited in desperate longing.

He was finally free. Free of the looming threat of failing his uni work, _finally_ graduating. Free from the constant need for concentration on earning the credits at the ad agency since they let him take a break for the summer.

Free from the overwhelming lust fraying his nerves for the whole period of those stubbornly stretched out eight months.

Merlin has been tense to the point of snapping for so many weeks now, he felt like he could fly with all the pressure finally lifted off his shoulders.

It seemed like he couldn’t get home soon enough. _To hell with it all_ , decided Merlin, and caught a taxi. It would amount to no cheap ride but he felt like he would burst from excitement if he didn’t get to Arthur _fast._

He couldn’t wait to tell Arthur all about his art project and discuss the plans for the upcoming celebration. Merlin grinned gleefully at the prospect of going with Arthur to the shopping centre next Thursday - the day after Arthur would be officially twenty-one - to pick a suit out for him. Oh, that was going to be _delightful._

Merlin mentally started coming up with different looks for Arthur to try. Naturally, his mind drifted to an event preceding the graduation ceremony.

Merlin sighed deeply at the thought of having Arthur all to himself for _an entire night._ That is, if Arthur decided he still wanted it. Merlin frowned.

He had stayed true to his rules, not letting Arthur seduce him with his _mere bloody presence._ It was incredibly difficult not to discard the stupid restrictions and tackle him into the bed to make him writhe and moan _and_ \--

Merlin was so proud of himself.

With a sigh, Merlin put his mind to rest. He figured, he couldn't do anything about Arthur’s upcoming decision so it was no use fretting over it. Whatever he decided, Merlin wasn’t going to let him out of his life.

 _If I can’t love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend,_ a voice in sang his head. Merlin grinned at the word ‘lover,’ dreamily looking out of the window.

“And I will lay in bed before you, keep you safe until the end,” he hummed to himself, intentionally modifying the lyrics.

Merlin thought back on the last time he had seen Arthur. A painful sensation blossomed in his stomach when he recalled Arthur’s shuddering sobbing, his tear-soaked face like a punch to the gut. Merlin has been too devastated to hug him and calm him down, intensely caught up in the frantic panicky desperation over his final assignment.

Afterwards, he didn’t have a free minute to call Arthur, busy with making arrangements, changing the whole disposition of his project and hurrying around like a game snake on the highest speed.

He hoped Arthur didn’t do anything stupid. He absolutely meant to call him, but every time he woke up in the studio after passing out into a dreamless sleep, the wall covered in bright post-it notes reminded him of everything he had to do, conveniently keeping his mind off of Arthur.

Merlin knew Arthur was doing better in the whole self-destruction field. He had spotted a crumpled note on the floor once, picking it up out of curiosity and reading Arthur’s shaky scribbling.

Sure enough, when he opened the freezer, he noticed droplets of water having frozen all over the ice container where Arthur must have poured it carelessly. The wave of relief that washed over Merlin was overwhelming.

Of course, he wanted Arthur to stop hurting himself. He itched to confiscate his knife, to remove all the sharp objects from their flat, but he had read enough stories to know that would only reinforce the behaviors.

Merlin learnt about self-harm for the first time when he discovered Freya slashing her skin with his x-acto knife after their fight. He threw the knife out afterwards, buying a new one, unable to touch the familiar handle without images of her rich blood all over it flashing in his mind.

He had spent a week in a state of anxious desperation, straining to understand _why_ somebody would _do_ that to themselves? Why would a sweet, beautiful, intelligent girl press a blade into her arm so deeply it started to bleed freely, a breath away from a lethal flow. Eventually, he turned to the internet to seek answers.

Merlin didn’t understand self-harm. After hours spent reading the reasons, the chemical reactions involved, the comments of sufferers and the loved ones, he still couldn’t exactly _understand._

 _We don’t need understanding, we need loving,_ someone wrote in reply to the numerous inquiries. Merlin memorised it.

When he found out about Arthur’s struggle, the initial urge to ask _why,_ the automatic _promise me you’ll stop, I don’t want you to hurt yourself_ died on the tip of his tongue as he remembered the unfortunate tales from the websites.

Merlin knew it wasn’t that simple. He knew people wouldn’t _stop,_ they would only start hiding it, trying to keep it a secret to avoid hurting those who cared about them.

He didn’t want Arthur to do the same. That was the reason Merlin let all the sharp things stay where they were. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Arthur continuing cutting, either. That was a part of the reason he had insisted on Arthur keeping the adorable leopard hoodie on. Merlin went so far as to stealthily lower the temperature in the flat, making sure they would have to wear warm clothes.

He didn’t want to see if any fresh wounds would appear on Arthur’s skin, didn’t want Arthur to catch him glancing at his bare arms in silent scrutiny.

Merlin knew it might prompt Arthur to simply change the area of self-inflicted cuts, and from what he had gathered, Arthur had only ever self-harmed on his forearms. Merlin didn’t want to be the one responsible for Arthur extending the bloodied paintings to the full canvas of his body.

He was certain Arthur’s thighs were clean of scars, as were his chest, legs, shoulders and ankles. Merlin preferred it to stay that way.

The taxi was only three streets away from their home now. Merlin fidgeted in his seat. He desperately hoped to find Arthur safe and sound. A little part of his mind whispered at him about the stack of knives in the kitchen, about the traces of red he might spot on Arthur’s sheets. Merlin ordered that obnoxious part to shut the hell up.

Finally, the car stopped beside the pavement. Merlin paid the driver, stumbled out of the vehicle, checking the saloon for any bags he might have forgotten.

The precious cylinder case was sitting safely under his armpit. Merlin smiled, anticipating Arthur’s reaction when he told him the story of his successful graduation. Finally, Arthur would see Merlin’s point of view.

He buzzed himself in, imagining Arthur bolting up at the sound of the intercom in the flat. Merlin sneered. He contemplated schooling his face into a grave expression to fuck with Arthur a little but then remembered his devastated face and decided to enter the flat with a wide smile. He also decided to fling himself at Arthur and hug _the hell_ out of him immediately upon seeing his stupid, sad, wonderful eyes.

Merlin fumbled with the keys a little, giggling from the sheer excitement of everything finally being in place. He was coming home to Arthur, they were going to make peace, eat and watch some TV, talk about the celebration and in four days, they were going to --

Merlin walked into a dark, silent room.

His stomach dropped in fear. He tried to shake it off, thinking Arthur might be asleep or listening to music with the headphones on and not hearing Merlin come in.

Merlin turned on the lights. The place was surgically clean, nothing out of place.

“Arthur?” he called, voice full of suppressed panic.

No answer.

Merlin carelessly dropped the case with his art, discarding his bag on the floor as he rushed to Arthur’s bedroom.

It was empty, the bed neatly made, the linen folded in a pressed pile atop the mattress.

Hurriedly, Merlin dashed to the dresser. The clothes were there. Upon closer inspection, Merlin noticed that Arthur’s old clothes, however, were missing, along with the duffel bag he had kept in the corner of the room.

Merlin cursed loudly. He saw Arthur’s phone lying on the bedside table. Merlin picked it up.

 _1 new message,_ it read. The message Merlin had sent him. Arthur must have left before having the opportunity to read it.

Being the usual twisted deceitful bitch, hope perked up deep in Merlin’s soul and he rushed into the kitchen.

_Maybe Arthur was still there. Maybe he was just trying to make it seem like he had left, all the while being there and laughing at how stupid of an idiot --_

The kitchen was as heart-wrenchingly hollow as the sensation in Merlin’s chest.

Trying to breath slowly, Merlin looked around the room. A perfectly white piece of paper was stuck to the fridge door with a pinapple magnet.

Instantly, Merlin was in front of the fridge, tearing it away and bringing it closer to read.

_Merlin._

_I know you call me an ‘arrogant prick’ precisely for assuming things but in this case, I think I won’t be wrong in assuming you want nothing to do with me. It’s okay, I wouldn’t want anything to do with me, either._

_I’m so very sorry for all the trouble I have caused you. If I knew how to undo every single idiotic fucked-up thing I’ve done, I would. But, to my immense regret, I do not know a way to reverse all my mistakes._

_I only hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. Do not think I’m running off like a coward, I’m simply clearing my -- let’s be honest here, rather pathetic -- self out of your way. Believe me, you are better off without me._

_I am so, so sorry._

_Arthur._

Merlin stared at the note, noticing scarce watery spots drying on the paper. Not more than two hours ago, Arthur must have written this, wayward tears catching on the farewell words.

Not more than two hours ago, Merlin could have returned and caught the stupid prat as he was leaving, only _one hundred twenty minutes ago --_

The room is suddenly too hot.

And then too cold.

And then it's drowning, and Merling is drowning with it, but not to the jewelry and the diamonds at the bottom of the sea, but to the skeletons and monsters, crawling out of dead moss-covered ships with their unlucky captains and bitter rum.

Two hours, one hundred twenty minutes, seven thousand two hundred seconds. Merlin automatically converts, counting in his mind as he stands in the middle of the room, gasping for breath.

He turns the note in his hands, discovering Arthur had used a page of his sheet music to write on.

Merlin looks at the meaningless dots covering the black lines which are doomed to end to a harsh halt at the side of the page and feels as if somebody just switched off the Sun.

 

 

 

~Sunday, 22nd of July

Arthur found himself sitting at a bus stop. He didn’t know how he had gotten there, having spent the whole previous day wandering mindlessly through the streets.

He raised his head to look at the sign. _Eagle Wharf Road, Stop XL._

Accidentally, Arthur had been sitting at the bus stop that was right near the park he and Merlin had once gone to stargaze. Arthur stood up and stiffly entered the gates. He walked through the empty alleys, staring blankly into the distance until he came to a halt.

There. The lawn on his right was the exact place he and Merlin had laid on the grass, looking up into the black sky, trying to guess the constellations.

Arthur locked his eyes on the spot. He felt like reaching through time to tap himself on the shoulder and whisper, “Don’t you even fucking dare cook the bloody broccoli ever again, _ever_.”

If only he could just, _reverse it, make it come back, undo the whole mess,_ change one tiny detail, if he only could just --

“Arthur!”

He heard someone yelling his name. Automatically, Arthur turned to the sound.

There was a dark figure on the far bench. The shadowy silhouette stood out sharply against the white paint of the wood.

For a moment, Arthur’s heart stopped as he hysterically thought it was his father. The tone of the stranger’s voice was cold and harsh enough to belong to Uther.

However, after a horrifying moment it took to get a closer look, Arthur realised it was none other than Michael. What was _he_ doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be at work? Belatedly, Arthur realised it was a Sunday, which meant Michael probably had a day off.

He remained in place, not sure what he was supposed to do. The feeling had become familiar over the course of the past sixty hours that passed since Arthur had left Merlin’s flat.

Once he had walked out of the building, the sun too bright for his bloodshot eyes, Arthur realised he had no idea what he was going to do. He had no plan, no strategy, and that had felt unbelievably _wrong,_ but no more so than the sensation of being in his own skin.

Arthur simply put one leg in front of the other, not knowing or caring where he was going, the icy waves of hatred surprisingly numbing. He couldn’t forgive himself for all the mistakes he had made and he felt like he couldn’t punish himself enough, no matter what he did.

At some point, Arthur realised he had been as lost in his surroundings as he felt adrift in his life. He continued strolling around the city well into the night, having no money to speak of to even contemplate the thought of going to a café.

In two days, Arthur was going to be rich. In a mere forty-two hours he was going to have enough money to stay at a hotel or rent a place, to continue his education. Two nights, and he would be able to visit Gaius, to see Morgana again, to have the freedom to _live…_

Rationally, Arthur knew all that.

Deep inside, he felt like his life was over the moment Merlin was out of it.

“What a coincidence, Arthur, isn’t it?”

Arthur tried to ground his wandering mind to focus on present events. It was difficult given he hadn’t slept or eaten in over two days.

Michael was standing right in front of him. Arthur hadn’t noticed him approaching, probably because he wasn’t fully concentrating on what was happening. From this close a distance, Arthur was able to fully take Michael’s appearance in. It was an unsettling sight.

And smell. Michael reeked of alcohol. Arthur lowered his eyes and sure enough, there was a bottleneck peeking out of a brown paper bag clutched in Michael’s tight fist.

Arthur looked up at Michael’s face in surprise. Judging by the position of the sun, it couldn’t be more than 4 o’clock in the afternoon. And it was a Sunday. Michael wasn’t a surgeon but any doctor needed his hands steady. Everyone knew that.

“Michael?” Arthur said carefully. Michael’s shoulders were tense, his watery green eyes the shade of the dirty sea. He was looking directly at Arthur, his gaze sharp in spite of the state of his blatant inebriation.

Arthur unintentionally gave Michael a once over.

He was wearing the same dark brown jacket as last November despite the warm July weather. If that wasn’t strange enough, the worn out state the jacket was in made Arthur wonder what the hell had happened to Michael that he wasn’t his usual impeccably-dressed self.

Obvious dirt stains covered the wrinkled sleeves, greasy spots glistening on the leather lapels.

His jeans were essentially in the same state of neglect, a patch of cloth torn just below the knee. The sneakers Michael had never used to wear before were grey with mud.

His face was scruffy, bags under tired eyes hinted at how little Michael must have been sleeping, the yellowish tone to his skin betrayed his apparent drinking habit.

If Arthur were to pass him on the street, he would never recognise the pretentious Doctor Hannon he had come to know in this uncomely drunk.

“Well, Arthur, I have been waiting way too long for the opportunity to meet you again. How about I buy you a drink? I think we have a lot to talk about,” Michael sneered, surprisingly not slurring his speech at all. Perhaps he hadn’t started his _morning_ with a glass of alcohol, after all.

Something in Arthur stirred uncomfortably. Michael seemed like a man on a mission, the unpalatable air around him giving away his determination to tag Arthur along to a pub. He leaned closer into Arthur’s personal space, trying to smile at him but only managing to bare his teeth in a feral grin.

If Arthur had cared enough, he would have listened to his mind telling him, _don’t do it, don’t go,_ conscious of Michael’s dangerous predisposition.

But Arthur was numb and lost and indifferent to the world around him, so he simply nodded and fell in step with Michael as the man was leading the way out of the park confidently, if a little unsteadily.

After a while, Michael came to a halt near a pub on Camden High Street, _Worlds End._ Arthur would have chuckled at the name if he weren’t in a state of a senseless zombie.

They entered through the dark wooden doors. After ordering a shot and a beer for himself and World’s End ale for Arthur, Michael led them up the spiral staircase to the second floor, where the blasting music wasn’t so loud. Arthur was thankful for that, the hideous dissonant screaming of some unfortunate ‘singer’ with no concept of actual singing practically making his ears bleed.

They sat at a table in a shadowy corner. The place was enormous but probably due to the fact that it was Sunday and only half-five, it was also hollowly empty, at least on the second floor. Arthur eyed Michael downing the shot before taking a sip of his own drink. It tasted good on his tongue, cold liquid flowing freely down his throat into his empty stomach.

“So Arthur, tell me how’ve you been,” Michael smacked his lips, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Fucked up any other people’s lives lately?”

Arthur’s stomach turned, threatening to force the beer up and out of his mouth.

“You did, didn’t you?” Michael laughed loudly. He sounded almost hysterical. “So who was it? Another guy who was stupid enough to help a pathetic fucker like you? What did you do? Force your tongue down his throat before trying to off yourself?”

“I didn’t try to kill myself.” said Arthur automatically.

“Pity, that.” Michael took a gulp of his beer. Arthur mirrored the action.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected from this encounter. He didn’t have any illusions about Michael. Arthur decided Merlin was right after all when he had said once when they had ended up talking about Michael on one memorable occasion.

_“He sounds like a douche with a hero complex, Arthur. That might be the reason or the cause of his profession as a doctor. The problem is, a hero complex gone wrong creates a sad picture of a villain, so to speak. That sort of person is terrifying, they are capable of killing you as easily as helping you.”_

Merlin seemed to know a lot about different kinds of personality traits, syndromes and general psychological stuff. Arthur wondered where had he learnt all that. He had never had the mind to ask him when he had the time. Now, he would never know.

The silence stretched out until it became so uncomfortable, it felt like a physical pressure on Arthur’s shoulders. He racked his brain for a subject to talk about, already light-headed from alcohol. Finally, he opted on walking the familiar ground.

“Why are you drinking today, then? Not working tomorrow?” Arthur cleared his throat when his voice came out raspy and dry.

Michael chuckled humourlessly in reply, shaking his head. “Nah, not working tomorrow. Or anytime soon, for that matter.”

“You left the hospital?” Arthur raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Michael has always been highly enthusiastic about his job. Arthur knew that despite his peculiar character flaws, Michael genuinely enjoyed curing people. He suspected it was as much about practically having a godlike power over human beings as it was about the delight Michael took in seeing his patients get better under his relentless scrutiny.

“I did,” nodded Michael. “But not before your Daddy slipped in a notion about my ‘incompetence’.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. “My Father? How --”

“They _generously_ ‘let me go’ without dragging me all the way to the court for -- guess what, Arthur?” Michael interrupted, not pausing for Arthur’s response. “ _Kidnapping a patient._ Fucking kidnapping _you._ ”

Arthur openly gaped at him.

“But you didn’t kidnap me!”

“Yeah, that’s what I tried to prove, but my say didn’t seem to matter. I guess, the only reason I escaped charges was because there was not enough evidence. However, there was plenty to get me permanently suspended from practising, _ever again._ And being a doctor is the only way I know how to earn a living, Arthur. You and your fucking Daddy stripped me out of my identity, so what do I do now, huh? Come on, tell me!”

By the end of his monologue, Michael was yelling, his tone biting and bitter.

Arthur stared down at the table, unable to look Michael in the eye. He had never expected this turn of events. After Michael had thrown his out, Arthur believed the man’s life was easier.

“How did he find you?” he asked, quiet with overwhelming guilt.

“Remember your little stunt with drowning yourself? The hospital that took you in required my credentials so they wouldn’t call the closest relative. I was moronic enough to risk my arse over yours. Apparently, your _Daddy_ found me through unsealing the records using his fucking mafia authority.”

“He isn’t a member of mafia,” Arthur echoed heedlessly.

“Do I look like I fucking care?!” Michael shouted, spitting saliva everywhere. Arthur wiped stray drops from his cheek.

“Bottom line is, you screwed me over, Arthur. You screwed me over so bad, I don’t know what you can do to make it up. And you _are_ making it up to me, I haven’t been stalking all the parks nearby for half a year for nothing. You are paying for what you’ve done.”

Michael’s tone was menacing. Arthur looked up to see his eyes shining viciously. He cleared his uneasy throat.

“I know. The money should come through in two days, I was going to transfer a large sum to your account anyway. I haven’t forgot, you know.”

Michael squinted at him, his lips twisting into an ugly smirk. “Are you trying to pay me off? Throw me some cash in the hopes I go away?” His tone became dangerously edged.

“No, I --” Arthur took a deep breath in frustration, trying to keep his voice down. “Look, we had a deal. I promised to return all the money you’d spent on me the moment I got access to my bank account, right? And I will stay true to my word.”

“How about everything I’ve lost because of your disgusting existence, huh? How are you going to refund _that?”_

“Jesus Christ, Michael, what do you want from me?” Arthur threw his hands up. “I don’t fucking know, it’s not my fault that shit’s happened to you, I didn’t do anything! You decided to help me yourself, I didn’t bloody _force_ you to do anything, what the fuck is your problem?!”

“Wow,” breathed Michael. “That’s...That’s rich, Arthur.” He downed about half of his glass, leaving it almost empty.

“I’m not responsible for anyone’s actions but my own,” Arthur continued, trying to calm his quivering voice. He was ashamed and miserable and _done,_ he was so fucking done with this bullshit, with his Father hunting him like some sort of prey, with having to hide and _survive_ and accept help, with feeling weak and defeated and pathetic.

The only way Arthur knew how to react at a punch thrown his way was to strike back. When he was angry, he would snap and shout at everything and everyone that had the bad luck to be in a twenty mile radius, and he had never been more _enraged_ at himself than right now. Naturally, it transformed into him sending harsh sentences Michael’s way.

“Well then, I recommend you responsibly take action towards _killing yourself_. No one else has to suffer, Arthur. Do us all a favour,” Michael leaned on the table with a grave sigh. All the fight in him seemed to dissipate. Now he just look like a hopeless tired man.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur.

Michael opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it, shaking his head and smirking. After a pause, his face grew serious as he looked straight ahead.

“Yeah, me too.”

Arthur took a swig of his drink, not knowing what he was supposed to do now. Where did this conversation leave them?

A stinging melancholy tugged at Arthur’s heart. They used to be friends. They used to joke and laugh with each other. Where the hell did everything go wrong?

Unfortunately, he knew the answer. If he didn’t, he might not feel like the worst fuck-up in the history of despicable fuck-ups.

“So, where do you live now?” Michael asked in a conversational tone. His face was relaxed, if a little red after all the yelling.

Arthur contemplated dodging the question, or replying in a vague way but in the end, this was Michael and they hadn’t met in a very long time and maybe, just maybe, there was still a possibility of making truce this him. And truce always requires honesty.

“I have been staying with a friend,” Arthur ignored the mocking huff Michael gave at that. “On Old Street Angel.”

“Holy shit!” Michael dramatically slumped back against his seat. “You were _so close,_ this entire time!” He looked around incredulously, as if asking the walls _how unbelievable was that?_

“Really?” Arthur frowned in thought. He had left Michael’s flat only about four times so he didn’t actually remember where had they lived. He was always too busy hurrying around the streets to pay attention to his surroundings.

He had left Merlin’s home notoriously more often than that, Merlin excitedly dragging him around the city at night to visit _‘interesting places, come on, Arthur, you can’t just sit at home all the time like a hermit.’_

“Bloody hell, I can’t believe it!” Michael exclaimed, evidently still trying to come to terms with this new knowledge.

“Why, what were you going to do, give me away to my Father?” Arthur muttered into his pint, not really expecting an answer.

“Maybe,” Michael shrugged. “They did ask, you know. I haven’t met you father personally, but I got a call. He proposed a deal -- if I told him your whereabouts, I’d be left alone.”

Instantly, Arthur thanked all the gods or fortune or whatever the hell it was that magically prevented him from ever bumping into Michael on the streets. He felt like he had narrowly escaped an avalanche.

“Oh well, no use mulling that over now,” Michael sighed heavily. “What’ve you been up to, anyway?”

Arthur wasn’t sure he believed Michael’s sudden change of mood, but he decided not to spoil the tentative peace between them with his suspicions. After everything they’d both been through, Arthur supposed the man deserved to be given the benefit of the doubt.

They talked casually about Arthur’s latest months without going into much detail. Arthur carefully maneuvered the conversation, avoiding accidentally telling too much and thus revealing any information about Merlin. Michael listened rapturously, eyeing Arthur’s lips with an unnerving amount of attention.

“Um, Michael, is there a reason you have been staring at my mouth the entire time I’ve been talking?” Arthur gave him a pointed look before draining the last of his ale. He put the glass on the table with a thud and glanced at Michael’s empty mug. It seemed they didn’t have any reason to stay in the pub any longer.

Perhaps, Michael thought the same, because he straightened in his seat, leaning to Arthur conspiratorially. “You know, you never did return the kiss you've stolen from me,” he drawled, smiling slyly.

Arthur’s eyes bulged out.

“What?”

“Oh, come on now, Arthur, don’t tell me you forgot our little seaside vacation. You stole a kiss from me, and I intend to get it back.” Michael was still smiling widely, perfectly straight teeth bare and unnaturally white in the strange lighting of the room.

“Uh,” said Arthur. He fiddled with his empty glass for a moment, not quite knowing what to say. “I thought you were straight?”

“And you still kissed me,” Michael noted.

“I didn’t -- I wasn’t sure you were -- Uh.” Arthur really could not come up with an explanation for his past behaviour. Why _had_ he done that? Why had he decided Michael might have reciprocated his feeling when he had known the man was straight as an arrow?

Arthur supposed Merlin would have been able to tell him all of the answers.

“Anyway, forget that, you know what this pub’s infamous for? Loos. They say it was an absolutely terrifying picture in two thousand six, I don’t know what about now. Wanna check it out with me?” Michael winked at him, slowly standing up.

Arthur might have been faintly drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. That was such an obvious ruse. Michael conspicuously wanted him in the secluded area with him. To kill him or kiss him - Arthur didn’t know.

And he didn’t care.

Whatever it was, Arthur decided he probably deserved it. He followed Michael into the men’s room.

It was huge. Huge and empty which struck Arthur as strange before he remembered how deserted the pub had been this afternoon.

Arthur automatically tagged along as Michael walked further away from the entrance, all the way to the back.

When they were near the furthest stall possible, Michael sharply turned around, grabbed Arthur by the collar and threw him in the empty stall, going in as well and locking the door behind.

Arthur regained his balance although clinging to the wall a little. The stall they were in occupied the entire corner with the white toilet tucked neatly near the wall. The remaining space would easily allow six people to fit in there.

“Michael, what the --”

“Shut up!” Michael leaped forward and next second, Arthur was crouched on his knees, clutching at his stomach.

Michael wasn’t a doctor for nothing. He knew precisely where to aim so even though Arthur might have fought him off -- that is, considering Arthur would even try -- a wicked punch to the solar was more than enough for Arthur to see nothing but black.

He felt harsh fingers grab painfully at his hair, forcing his head back against the cold wall.

“ _You think_ you can do whatever the hell you want, don’t you? You and your Daddy, playing with people’s lives as you please, huh?”

Arthur tried opening his eyes but the light was way too bright. He shut his lids tightly together, feeling like he was going to puke. A heavy pain in the area of his chest and stomach only added to the nauseous urges. Arthur swallowed tightly.

“You like me so much, huh? Well, is this what you wanted? Is this what you were after?”

In the poisonous flow of Michael’s low voice, Arthur could hear a faint sound of a buckle being undone.

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshit_.

He tried raising his palm to stop Michael’s hand from opening his fly but the doctor unceremoniously batted his hand away. Arthur tried easing Michael’s grip on his hair by digging his blunt nails into the skin of Michael’s wrist but only earned a violent thud into the wall that made Arthur’s ears ring.

Arthur shook his head when something touched his lips. He was dizzy and hurting and he _just wanted this to stop._

“If you make one more sound, I’m going to punch all of your fucking teeth in,” threatened the man from above. Arthur knew he wasn’t joking.

Arthur felt like crying. Like collapsing on the floor and yelling his lungs out, sobbing the vibrations into his collarbones.

Then his strategic instinct kicked in. He decided if he just, sort of, _did it,_ everything would be over sooner and this man would leave him alone.

Arthur began sucking in earnest, not thinking about what he was doing. Not yet, not yet. He would think about it later when he had the knife’s safety to provide him with the feeling of control.

 _Fuck,_ he _is_ thinking about it. _No control, no control no power no choice no say over the situation no --_

Arthur concentrated on remembering how Merlin’s face changed if he smiled in that particular way when a little dimple appeared on his cheek, always hidden otherwise.

He remembered the first time Merlin made food. The tragic attempt of a vegan pancake. To be fair, Arthur discovered that the pan genuinely _was_ terrible when he tried cooking in it. They got rid of it.

He thought about Merlin’s wet face when they watched the final episode of this series of _Joan D’Arc,_ how he sobbed into his tea until Arthur tugged him close and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

Arthur would really like to hug Merlin right about now.

Bitter liquid hit the back of Arthur’s throat. He couldn’t spit it against his full mouth so he had to swallow, bile rising up his esophagus as he did so.

Finally, Arthur caught his breath, open-mouthed and squinting against the brightness of the lamps. A dark silhouette stood above him, still holding his head to the wall by blond strands. A vice grip of fingers curled around Arthur’s throat,  slowly reducing the flow of oxygen into his lungs.

“Maybe I should kill you now, do a favour to all the unfortunate fuckers that might come by your way,” he grinned maliciously.

Arthur’s vision was going dark. Desperately, he tried to remember the sensation of Merlin draped over him, holding him in his arms. If Arthur was going to die, that was the last memory he wanted to have. That way, the last thing in his life would be Merlin hugging him close. Arthur could peacefully die with that.

His contracting lungs finally got the air they were struggling for. Arthur started coughing, reflexively bringing a hand to rub at his throat.

“Look at yourself. So pathetic. You know what, I won’t do anything. I’ll leave it to you to put yourself out of your fucking misery. I’m sure you can do it better. Just do us all a favour, Arthur -- make it be sooner rather than later.”

The man leaned close to him, his feral green eyes making Arthur’s urge to vomit ten times stronger.

“You are a fucking nuisance. Your own father is trying to lock you away from normal people. You are a mistake, Arthur. Don’t let anyone think of you otherwise.”

With a last smirk and a slap to Arthur’s cheek, he drew back, let go of Arthur’s hair, zipped his trousers, turned around and exited the stall.

Arthur heard loud thumps on the floor echoing all the way to the door before he jerked when it slammed.

After five seconds of absolute silence, Arthur crawled over to the pearl-white toilet, clutching his fingers around the cool surface as he retched into the bowl, long and disgusting.

When it was over, Arthur practically climbed the wall to stand up. He picked up the duffel bag he had dropped when the doctor had pushed him into the stall. Going over to the sinks, Arthur splashed his face with cold water. He got out his toothbrush and a tiny tube of mint toothpaste, not caring what anyone who entered the loos might think.

When the taste in his mouth was clean and fresh, Arthur changed his shirt. He adjusted his hair before the mirror.

A moment later, Arthur, in a white long-sleeved shirt, with shiny hair and pleasant breath, exited the pub, turning right and walking down the road, all the way to Hornsey Lane Bridge, which was a well-known London attraction.

Only, not for the tourists.

  


 

It is the perfect stillness of _4’33_ by John Cage.

For once, Arthur’s emotions are raw and real, undisguised by a flourish of various gentle tunes.

He looks straight ahead at the street lights. The darkness has fallen upon the city. Cars rush below, people hurrying home to their families. Arthur hates to think that one of the drivers will have to be home late tonight because of an accident. He hopes his body won’t cause too much trouble.

Michael’s words play in his mind over and over again.

It is probably past midnight already. Tomorrow is the the day he would be twenty-one. Finally, the day he has been surviving for for these long five years. Tomorrow his new life begins.

Arthur drops his bag on the pavement, coming closer to the rail.

So he lives. So what?

Merlin certainly doesn’t want anything to do with him.

Gaius and Morgana have probably moved on. Besides, they don’t need any more mess in their lives than what Arthur has already undoubtedly caused. He tries not to think of possible consequences of his escape he has brought upon their heads.

What else is there? Living for the sake of it? Arthur doesn’t think that is a good enough reason to stop trying to climb over the pointy spikes onto the other side of the rail.

He looks down. His breath catches in his throat.

Arthur swallows.

 _‘Put yourself out of your misery,’_ shouts a voice in his mind.

 _‘You are a fucking nuisance,’_ it whispers, _‘you are a mistake.’_

 _‘Do us all a favour,’_ chirps the voice.

 _‘There’s a light to every darkness, Arthur,’_ Merlin’s calm voice suddenly bursts through the veil of tormenting thoughts.

 _‘Your father is trying to lock you away from normal people,’_ rages the persistent opponent.

 _‘The treatment you’ve received is unfair,’_ continues Merlin in his mind.

 _‘Put yourself out of your misery,’_ cuts the voice.

_‘You don’t need to do this, Arthur. You have all the control.’_

_‘Put. Yourself. Out. Of. Your. Misery.’_

_‘You don’t need to do this.’_

_‘Nuisance mistake fuck up kill yourself freak freak’_

_‘Arthur.’_

Arthur’s eyes fly open from where he shut them against the war of thoughts in his head. He looks down at the road to see a truck conveniently speeding up in the distance.

It’s now or never.

Arthur clutches the rough indifferent metal under his fingertips and holds his breath.

In the end of the day, he does have all the control.

 

 

 

 

~

 _Sometimes hate is not enough to turn this all to ashes_  
_Together as one, against all others_  
_Break all of their wings to make sure it crashes_

 _We're running to the edge of the world_  
_Running, running away_  
_We're running to the edge of the world_  
_I don't know if the world will end today_

 _We had no choice to erase the debt of our families_  
_I let you say goodbye with lips like dynamite_  
_And everyone turned their backs because they knew when we held on tight_  
_To each other, that we were something fatal that fell into the wrong hands_

Merlin is walking through the deserted streets towards his flat. His phone indicates the time is 5:43 in the morning, Monday 23rd.

He has been running around the city for the past two days now, trying to find Arthur. He has circled the area of Shoreditch Park Garden about a hundred times, hoping Arthur might go there.

He has travelled to the hotel they met at during Christmas, to his old address, to all the cafés and art galleries Merlin has showed Arthur.

After two days of a fruitless search, Merlin is tired and hopeless and _done._ For all he knows, Arthur might be on a train somewhere right now.

As he walks past the Hornsey Lane Bridge, Merlin sees an ambulance and police cars gathered on the road below. _‘There must have been an accident,’_ he thinks absentmindedly, too drained to pay it much attention.

The music in his headphones sings to him about the edge of the world. As if on cue, Merlin passes a pub, _Worlds End_ , and smiles a little. What a coincidence.

Merlin really likes coincidences. They hold a magical tone to them, like destiny is guiding him through life. It’s calming to believe everything has some sort of a purpose.

Like with Arthur, for example. What are the odds they would have met on the train? Be in the exact same coach?

What are the odds Arthur walks into precisely the same hotel Merlin just happened to be in that night?

A warm smile spreads on his face as Merlin thinks about Arthur. His stupid endearing face, his adorably crooked teeth that only show when he smiles a certain way. On that note, Arthur would probably scoff at him if he knew Merlin called Arthur _adorable._

A sharp pang of pain hits Merlin’s chest from the inside. He might never see Arthur pouting at him ever again. Merlin tries not to think about it as he simply puts one leg in front of the other, exhausted from the lack of sleep.

His stomach grumbles. Merlin had had some sandwiches on-foot the day before, never stopping his search for Arthur to properly sit down and eat.

It hurts him to think that all of it was in vain. It hurts even more to realise he was the one to fuck everything up.

If only he had been bright enough to call him, take one fucking minute to pick up the phone and tell him everything was alright, none of this would have happened. He _knew_ how Arthur was, how he would go blaming himself for every single thing that happened around him.

He knew and he did nothing.

Merlin cringes at himself. He is grateful for being so worn out that the only thing he can truly feel is the need to sleep. Otherwise, Merlin doesn’t know what he’d do.

He buzzes himself in, taking the stairs up slowly. As he is approaching his door, Merlin takes the ipod out of his pocket, pausing the music and taking off his headphones.

When he looks back up, he sees a bundle of colour near his door.

Upon closer look, he sees Arthur curled up in the corner. He is hugging his knees to his chest, the duffel bag is peeking out from where he is sitting on it. His head is leaned on the wall, his face blotchy red and his eyes closed.

Merlin’s heart does a summersault in his chest and he gasps audibly.

Arthur slowly squints his eyes open.

“I couldn’t do it, Merlin,” he half-sobs, half-breathes. “I tried, I did, but I just kept hearing your --”

Merlin cuts him off, near Arthur in a flash, crouching in front of him and flinging himself over Arthur’s body, his knees and elbows digging painfully, awkwardly, into Merlin’s body.

“Shhh,” Merlin soothes after a moment, feeling Arthur tremble like a leaf on a violently windy day. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

He helps Arthur get up, digs his keys out and opens the door.

Once they are inside, Merlin gently takes the duffel bag out of Arthur’s clutching grip, puts it on the floor and leads Arthur by hand into the bathroom. He silently undresses him, turning on the tap and checking the water’s temperature. Merlin nudges Arthur under the spray, quickly shedding his own clothes to join him after a moment.

Arthur’s eyes are shut, water pouring over his head, mixing with his salty tears.

Merlin rubs shampoo into Arthur’s scalp, massaging it softly with his nimble fingers. The fresh smell of apples mingles with the steam, making it easier to breathe.

Arthur’s shoulders are trembling, he tries to cover his face with his hands but Merlin carefully takes hold of them, spreading mint gel all over Arthur’s forearms, chest, neck, stomach. He makes a swift job of washing Arthur’s body before slowly moving him aside to quickly scrub himself clean.

Merlin turns off the water and reaches out for the towel. He dries them both off, Arthur’s choking sobs filling the pauses between the stray sounds of droplets ticking from the showerhead. He takes Arthur’s palm in his and guides them into Arthur’s room, opening a drawer and taking out two pair of pants.

Right now, Merlin couldn’t care less about the possible hazard of wearing someone else’s underwear. The boxers are clean and that’s good enough for him. He offers a pair to Arthur, tugging on his own.

Despite the warm weather, Merlin feels like wearing a t-shirt to sleep, a meak substitute for a security blanket. He rummages through some more drawers before getting out a red t-shirt for Arthur and a salmon long-sleeved one for himself.

Arthur has put his on and now is simply standing there, staring at Merlin with wide eyes. The usual intense blue of his irises is now almost transparent, a watery shadow of the intense colour that is washed away by tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Merlin.” His voice is broken. Arthur himself looks so fragile, too. Shattered into a flushed face, shaking fingers and chapped lips. Merlin touches his face with the back of his hand, grazing his full lips that are pressed tightly from trying to regain composure.

He walks Arthur towards the bed, pushing him down under the covers and climbing in to lie beside him. Arthur turns on his side so he is facing Merlin, and Merlin gingerly wraps his arms around Arthur’s shuddering frame.

He is so exhausted but he can’t fall asleep until Arthur’s barely audible weeping subsides against his chest, his breathing coming out less shallow.

Merlin lies there, slowly running his fingers through Arthur’s soft damp hair. Perhaps it is the result of his tired mind that turns off his brain-to-mouth filter or maybe it’s the aftermath of the utter distress Merlin has been feeling for two whole days, but he buries his nose into Arthur’s strands and says quietly, forming the sentence in a way that takes any possible choice away from Arthur.

“If you leave me ever again, it will break my heart.”

 

Arthur wakes up to Merlin stroking his cheek. The room is dark, the only light coming from the living room through the open door.

“Morning,” Merlin softly smiles at him. “I made breakfast.”

“Vegan pancakes?” The corners of Arthur’s lips quirk up.

“You guessed it.” Merlin doesn’t pull his hand away from Arthur’s face, gently grazing his eyelashes, his brow, caressing his cheekbone. “You’ll have to brush your teeth before you eat or drink anything, though.”

“Why?” Arthur leans into Merlin’s touch.

“Because during the night, the, uh,” Merlin bites his lips, struggling to find the right words. “Imagine your mouth is a cave, yeah? So while you sleep, these sort of acidic stalactites grow around the cave. You can’t swallow them with saliva, but with food or drink, they inevitably crush into your stomach and poison the area. If you don’t brush your teeth right after you wake up, you’re more likely to get stomach pains.”

“That’s the weirdest explanation I’ve ever heard,” Arthur huffs out a laugh. “How do you even know that stuff?”

“My dad used to be a doctor.” Merlin moves his hand into Arthur’s hair, burying his fingers in silky strands. “Well, a psychiatrist. Practically the one of his kind. He was able to handle the most dangerous patients with only his words. He taught me a lot about human kind.”

“Used to be? What is he doing now?”

“He’s dead,” Merlin replies curtly. Arthur’s heart does a double-take. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Merlin lowers his eyes but he never stops petting Arthur’s head.

“Then we won’t,” Arthur says, tugging Merlin close. He inhales the familiar scent of Merlin’s skin, shuddering at the thought that he came so close last night to losing _this,_ losing Merlin, forever.

“Go brush your teeth and come join me in the kitchen. I’ve barely eaten for two days now and I’m starving. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up but if I don’t have any food in the next thirty minutes, I’ll be able to start using my hallucinations for art Miro-style.” Merlin hesitantly frees himself from Arthur’s hold, standing up from the bed.

“Okay.” Arthur follows suit, getting out from under the covers with careful movements, lightheaded from the lack of nourishment for the same period of two days.

He goes straight into the bathroom and sees his toothbrush standing in the holder alongside Merlin’s. Arthur smiles to himself. Merlin must have taken it out of his bag whilst Arthur was asleep, a passive-aggressive way to make Arthur feel like home in the hopes he will stay.

He quickly goes through his morning routine although he knows it must be well after midnight right now. Judging by the darkness outside the windows, they have slept the daylight away.

Arthur walks into the kitchen and sits across from Merlin, as usual. The table is laid with two cups full of aromatic tea and two plates with delicious looking pancakes. Arthur’s stomach grumbles in appreciation.

They eat in silence for a few minutes before Arthur puts his fork aside and looks up at Merlin.

“I met Michael last night.”

Merlin swallows his mouthful too quickly, coughing for breath and gulping his hot tea down. He winces as he probably scalds his tongue with the steaming liquid.

“ _What?_ ” Merlin manages after he can breathe again. “How? Where?”

Arthur stares down, bracing himself to tell Merlin what actually happened the night before.

“After I left home, I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I sort of walked around the city. Somehow, I ended up in that park I went to with you, remember?”

“Of course I remember, I went there looking for you!”

“You did?” Arthur raises his eyes at Merlin in disbelief.

“No, Arthur, I was sitting here on my arse, perfectly content with your sudden disappearance to God knows where!” Merlin’s voice is angry but his expression is clearly hurt. “What do you think I was doing if not searching through the entirety of London for your stupid face?!”

“Well, I didn’t actually think --”

“Of course you didn’t bloody think, you absolute prick!” Merlin interrupts him, his brow furrowed in dismay.

“I didn’t actually _think you would care_ ,” Arthur continues stubbornly. “After the mess I’ve made, I honestly thought you couldn’t stand my presence.”

Merlin opens and closes his mouth, not getting the words out, his expression scandalised.

“You didn’t answer any of my calls!” Arthur says in his defense. “And you didn’t come home for three days so I decided you didn’t want to see my ‘stupid face’. So I left.” Arthur looks downward again, not being able to meet Merlin’s luminous blue eyes.

“So you did.” Merlin takes a breath as if to say something else but after a moment, he covers Arthur’s hand with his own. “Tell me what happened, Arthur.” His voice is quieter, gone back to the kind tone he had been speaking in earlier.

Arthur retells the encounter with every detail, including Michael’s inability to work as a doctor ever again thanks to Uther’s deliberate actions and every spiteful word Michael had thrown Arthur’s way.

He only left out the part in the loos, instead saying Michael punched him in the solar, which was true, and left, which was also true. Except that he didn’t leave before violating Arthur’s body, hurting him worse than any physical blow ever could.

“After he left, I went outside and walked to the bridge, you know, the Hornsey Lane one,” Arthur gets to the point of his story he doesn’t really know how to go about. “I...I was…” Arthur licks his dry lips. He can’t just pretend _that_ was an accident too, now can he?

He is devastated to have to admit his true intentions out loud.

Probably Merlin guessed already because he is clutching Arthur’s hand painfully, digging his fingernails in the soft pad of Arthur’s palm. But he is silent, not asking any questions to move the narrative along, simply waiting for Arthur to continue.

“The things Michael told me, I think they got to me. It’s not like I decided to jump off a bridge because some bloke was mean to me, I just think that was the last straw. I kept thinking how I always screw everything up…” Arthur pauses, remembering something he still hasn’t asked Merlin.

He takes a deep breath, irrationally afraid that if says the words aloud, Merlin might suddenly realise how guilty Arthur was and this time Merlin would tell him to leave in person. He knows this is a ridiculous suggestion but he can’t shake off the feeling of dread as he mentally prepares himself for the answer to his next question.

“Like your graduation project.”

It’s worse than Arthur expected. Merlin lets go of Arthur’s palm in order to bring his hands to his face. He is slightly shaking and Arthur can’t see his eyes or cheeks but by quiet sniffs he realises Merlin must be crying.

That’s it, then. Now he knows for sure he ruined Merlin’s future irrevocably. _Future and present and all of his efforts of the past_ \-- Arthur is the reason Merlin’s entire life will come apart.

Arthur is contemplating apologising again but he feels like any words he says won’t mean anything. Distantly, he regrets not stepping forward from the ledge last night.

“I can’t believe you were going to kill yourself over my _fucking graduation project_ ,” Merlin whines, his voice thin but somehow even angrier than when he shouts.

“It’s not just your project, Merlin, it’s --”

“Stop it, Arthur! How would your death have been any relief to me, huh? Would it magically fix the destroyed work? Or what, was I supposed to feel some fucking gratification, like aw yeah, the person I care about is finally dead, what a joy?!”

Arthur can’t understand if Merlin is furious or anguished or both. He has always been uncharacteristically short-tempered when it concerns Arthur’s unfortunate ignorant beliefs about the world. He always reacts disdainfully when Arthur says something stupid or accidentally derogatory, but never to such an extent.

Merlin is hiccuping broken sobs, his face still hidden behind his hands. Arthur doesn’t know what to do but he can’t just do _nothing,_ can’t watch Merlin cry in front of him, motionless. So Arthur acts in the only way he knows around Merlin, a tactic that is stunningly simple.

_When in doubt, hug._

Arthur gets off his chair and walks around the table, wrapping his hands around Merlin’s body and whispering, _‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’_ into Merlin’s hair.

After a moment, Merlin clings to him, clawing at Arthur’s back in retaliation or maybe hoping it will cement his existence somehow if Merlin holds him hard enough.

“You stupid fucking bloody idiot,” Merlin growls.

“That’s one curse word too many, Merlin,” Arthur smiles into Merlin’s dark strands. He can’t stop his lips from spreading although he doesn’t know why he is feeling so light all of a sudden, like there is no more sorrow to worry about.

He rubs Merlin’s back, massages his neck and pets his hair until Merlin’s erratic breathing evens out. He draws back from Arthur, wiping at his eyes.

“Anyway, you could have never known that I passed my exam with flying colours and I’ve officially graduated. The ceremony is on Friday and you are invited, you absolute goat.”

Arthur laughs at the name Merlin threw his way. “Goat?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, you are stubborn and silly just like a goat. Also sometimes, I’m not sure if that’s bleating I hear or one of your ‘unpopular opinion’ talks wherein ‘unpopular opinion’ stands for ‘you better not say this in the mob of’ -- insert the matter of discussion.”

Even as he is saying so, Merlin is holding Arthur close with his legs wrapped around Arthur’s hips. He doesn’t let go for a second, scowling at Arthur even as he paws at him possessively.

“How did you graduate, then?” Arthur’s voice is low and intimate, he’s leaning down to absentmindedly trace Merlin’s cheekbone with his lips.

He had almost died around twenty hours ago. He needs to feel Merlin with every centimetre of his body to remind himself that he lives. Merlin shudders from the touch. His fists grab handfuls of Arthur’s t-shirt but let go almost immediately, sliding off the stool and taking Arthur by the hand.

He leads him to the easel juxtaposed to the piano. There is a giant canvas perched on the wooden carcass.

“This is it, this is my final piece,” says Merlin, gesturing at the painting.

“Wow, it’s…” Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “It’s so beautiful, Merlin.”

“Damn right it is,” Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hand. “It’s you.”

“Me?” Arthur asks incredulously. “How am I the depiction of nature?”

“That’s how I see you,” Merlin shrugs.

Arthur looks at the scenery again, trying to find the similarities.

At first glance, one might say the picture is gloomy. Overcast sky hanging low above the dark unruly waves of the restless sea, the shade of water turning menacing emeralds towards the horizon.

But Arthur knows better than to search for the darkness. Instead, he notices the sun hiding slyly behind the grey clouds. Its streams touch the surface of the sea, sparkling a blinding path across its vast stretch. The deep green line where sea becomes sky transforms into the subtlest hint of beige to fully grow as bright blue as the colour creeps upward.

The impossible stars are striking against the rich indigo of the sky, right below the monochrome arch of thunderheads.

On the left, Arthur sees unnaturally clean, heavy rocks peeking out of the turbulent waves. The outline of the stones is sharp, deciseful, accurate like a clean cut.

After looking closely at all the details, Arthur glances over the painting again, the general mood of it turning from forlorn to breathtakingly overwhelming in its beauty. All he can see now is the brightest azure above the horizon that is almost shining with light, visually setting the whole canvas aglow.

He inhales deeply on a whim and Arthur could swear he tastes salt on his tongue, the fresh crisp air of the seaside filling his lungs. The sense of freedom he gets from the scenery is shocking, slapping him in the face like a particularly strong gust of wind.

Arthur turns to look at Merlin to see him smiling widely.

“Well, you look positively dumbstruck. I think it’s a success, then.”

“Merlin,” Arthur yanks him closer by the hand and presses their foreheads together. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.”

“What?” Merlin murmurs in reply.

“I want to kiss you so much,” Arthur breathes. He simply can’t hold it in him anymore, all the desperate emotions from the past few days tipping him over the edge of endurance.

“I want you to kiss me but…” Merlin cuts off, the allusive reminder hanging in the air between them.

“When I was on the bridge,” Arthur says after a moment of silence. “I _was_ going to do it, you know. I was so ready. And there was this persistent voice that repeated Michael’s words to me, recited every single mistake I’ve made in my life.”

Merlin brings his fingers to gingerly stroke Arthur’s cheek.

“But then there was your voice, too,” Arthur continues. “Your voice telling me about the control I essentially have, what you said about the choice...Merlin, how can you be so wise and so thick at the same time? Don’t you understand?”

Merlin’s lower lip starts trembling slightly. Arthur hopes he isn’t going to cry because then Arthur will kiss him senseless, all the stupid restrictions notwithstanding.

“I’m not going anywhere. Remember what the rules were about? The choice. Last night, I had the ultimate choice. And I chose you.”

Merlin cups Arthur’s face, releasing a shaky breath.

Arthur looks at him, too close to really see anything except the lucent blue of Merlin’s eyes. He is prepared for Merlin's usual lecture about the purpose of the bloody ‘rules’ again or for a kiss on the corner of the mouth, the condescending promise of what is to come _if_ Arthur so happens to become Merlin’s bo --

Merlin’s plump lips touch Arthur’s, ever so gently and utterly innocent.

Arthur freezes, unable to respond. His brain seems to disengage from his body, short-circuit on ‘he is kissing me, _he is kissing me’_ as Arthur just stands there like a stone idol.

After a moment, Merlin draws back but only to tilt his head the other way, attaching himself to Arthur anew.

This time, Arthur reciprocates. He slowly mimics Merlin’s actions to avoid spoiling his first genuine kiss. It makes his lips tingle and Arthur darts out his tongue to lick them, accidentally catching the moist tip on Merlin’s lower lip.

Merlin lets out a small gasp.

Next moment, he is attacking Arthur’s mouth with a need that is bordering on desperate. Arthur stumbles back a little under the force of Merlin’s advance.

Merlin uses the inertia to push Arthur back towards the sofa, pressing him to sit down and following suit into his lap. This is what Arthur supposes they call ‘making out.’

Merlin is straddling him, never letting go of Arthur’s face, breathing harshly against his lips as he sucks on his lower and upper lip in turns, gliding his tongue along the inside of his mouth, licking his closed teeth.

Arthur tries to do the same for Merlin, but to no avail. Merlin is always just out of his grasp, curling his lips so Arthur can’t actually get a hold of them. Growling, he resolves to catching Merlin’s elusive lower lip with his teeth.

Merlin moans, shutting his eyes and dropping his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, his fingers digging in. The gesture makes shivers run down Arthur’s spine.

Merlin ducks his head, angling to slip his tongue deeper into Arthur’s mouth but his teeth are still closed tightly on Merlin’s lip. Merlin continues dragging his tongue along the tips of Arthur’s sharp teeth until Arthur gets the hint and parts them enough for Merlin to touch his slippery tongue to Arthur’s.

The sensation prompts Arthur to lose his breath for a moment. He has forgotten how it feels to have someone exploring his mouth, and no one has ever done it with such great attention and care as Merlin.

Their tongues are moving together before Merlin tricks and captures Arthur’s tongue in his own mouth, not letting go. Arthur moans mindlessly. The game for dominance continues until there is not enough breath in their lungs and they have to break to take in loud gulps of air.

“Merlin,” Arthur pants, glassy-eyed. His brain gone limp and his body is acting of its own accord, tugging Merlin closer, lower, _harder._

Merlin seems to be in the exact same state. His cupid’s bow of a mouth is cherry-red, the colour corresponding with the shade in his high cheekbones. Merlin’s eyes are comically wide and almost black with his pupils over-blown. The eyelashes generously framing his eyes make him look simultaneously delicately innocent and irresistibly demonic.

He swallows thickly. “It’s your birthday already, isn’t it?” The question comes out more like a hopeful whine.

“I have no idea,” Arthur traces Merlin’s chin with his mouth, revelling in the tiny sounds the gesture is eliciting deep from Merlin’s throat.

“Come on,” Merlin clumsily stands up, impatiently yanking Arthur up by the hand and striding into his own bedroom.

There, he stops to look at the clock on the bedside table that show 4:57 a.m.

Arthur spends a second trying to calculate how many hours they slept for before he is falling onto the bed under Merlin’s forceful hands.

Merlin is crawling atop of him quickly, none of the graceful teasing of slow moves left. He buries his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, hot rushed breath making the hairs on the back of Arthur’s head stand up in anticipation.

“It’s officially your birthday,” Merlin whispers feverishly into his skin. “You can do whatever you want now, you can leave right this instant, nothing holds you to this place anymore, you can leave any moment now.”

Merlin pauses, as if gathering the courage before he continues in a slightly breaking voice, “Please don’t let me do this if you are planning on leaving, please, I won’t --”

“Merlin, I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever, until you kick me out maybe, and then I am going to curl up in the hall and you’ll have to kill me yourself to get rid of me.” Arthur lifts Merlin’s head to look him in the eye.

Merlin looks more vulnerable than Arthur has ever, _ever_ seen him. It makes his heart convulse painfully at the thought of hurting Merlin someday. Arthur will make sure that day never comes.

“How promising,” Merlin lets out a shaky laugh. He kisses Arthur violently, biting down at his lip and licking it better.

“What do you want, then? Tell me, it’s _your_ birthday after all, I want to give you the perfect present,” Merlin goes right back to chanting hotly against Arthur’s pleasantly stinging lips.

“ _You_ are my perfect present.”

“Why Arthur, I’ve never thought a little action would make you so dopey,” Merlin grins. “If I knew sooner, I’d --”

“Make love to me,” Arthur breaths. “I want to feel you. Merlin,” he sighs deeply. “I want you inside me.”

Merlin pushes up on his elbows, looking down at Arthur with a little frown on his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. I want to _feel_ it. But not sex, not just _fucking,_ I, I don’t know how to --”

“Shh,” Merlin gently puts his finger to Arthur’s lips, effectively silencing him. “Okay. Okay.”

He presses his mouth to Arthur’s again, sliding a hand into his blond hair to pet it. “Just lay back and relax. Don’t think about anything and just listen to my voice, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. He certainly can do what Merlin is asking of him.

Merlin shifts a little lower, taking the hem of his shirt to tug it upwards, kissing the trail up his skin.

“What you don’t seem to understand, Arthur,” he says quietly between the kisses, “Is that there is so much beauty inside you. You are a whole world, and you almost ended mine last night.”

Merlin carefully removes Arthur’s t-shirt over his head, Arthur pliantly lifting his arms to help along.

He casts the material aside, taking off his own shirt to press against Arthur’s bare chest. Merlin feels comfortable and warm on top of him. Arthur releases a content sigh.

“I could map every centimetre of you if you don’t believe me,” continues Merlin, leaning in towards Arthur’s face.

“You are the sun,” Merlin kisses his hair.

“You are the bluest sky and the feathery birds,” he touches Arthur’s fluttering eyelashes, kissing his eyelids when Arthur’s eyes fall shut and whispering as he does so. “The sunsets."

“And the sunrises,” Merlin gives a peck to Arthur’s flushed rosy pink cheeks.

“The rain,” Merlin grazes his ear, “and the forest.” He breathes against Arthur’s two-day stubble.

“The blueberries,” Merlin licks the rapidly pulsing violet vein in Arthur’s neck, “and the cranberries.” He rubs his mouth softly against Arthur’s.

Merlin takes Arthur’s trembling hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. “You are the music.”

He runs his fingers through Arthur’s chest hair, cocking his head slightly. “And the hedgehogs,” Merlin says decisively.

Arthur laughs shakily.

“You are everything that is beautiful in the world, Arthur. How do you not see it? How can you wage war on _this_?”

Arthur opens his eyes when Merlin is silent for a moment. They lock gazes as Merlin trails his fingers down Arthur’s palm, below his wrist to brush across his scars.

“You are so gorgeous, Arthur,” Merlin says as his hands caress Arthur’s marked forearms. “No world is real without its flaws, but having flaws isn’t a bad thing. It’s what makes them different from others, what makes you _you._ ”

Merlin bends down to kiss Arthur’s belly button, lying between Arthur’s open thighs.

Arthur makes a sound reminiscent of a hiccup and buries his fingers in Merlin’s dark hair, petting his head to try and communicate how he feels.

It’s like a crescendo is rolling down into the pit of his stomach on a descending A#-dur scale but instead of ending on a quiet la#, it spirals back up again in ravenous arpeggios, notes intertwining and mingling into a perfect pattern of joy and passion and _power._

Merlin turns his head from where it’s lying on Arthur’s stomach to nuzzle against the bulging lines.

“You are so strong, Arthur. I am so proud of you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering on the raised skin. Arthur hiccups again, hoping the prickling in his eyes is simply the reaction of his sensitive irises to the dawn that is creeping apologetically in through the open window.

A warm summer air hangs low in the room, heavy from the heat of their bodies.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs, his voice noticeably uneven on the short word.

Merlin only hums in a questioning manner, busy with undoing Arthur’s trousers and getting his clothes out of the way. He looks like he doesn’t expect Arthur to continue. He is right, as always.

Arthur simply watches as Merlin lies down between his legs, pushing Arthur’s thighs up to rest on his shoulders.

When Arthur gives him a curious look, Merlin smiles happily at him in reply and disappears below Arthur --

“Ah,” Arthur can’t keep silent as he feels Merlin’s wet tongue at his entrance. Now, that’s something Arthur has _definitely_ never experienced.

The initial shocked gasps at the unfamiliar sensation turn into loud moans as Merlin works enthusiastically to open Arthur with his mouth. Arthur feels his eyes glazing over with the pleasure. It’s one of those moments when he can tell exactly how he must look, exposed and mindless and _needy._

Merlin carefully drops Arthur’s legs back on the bed to reach into the drawer of the bedside table, hovering above Arthur with a pleased smile on his lips.

It’s taking too long, and Arthur whines, clawing with blunt nails on Merlin’s biceps, wanting him to --

“C’m’ere,” Arthur mumbles, his muscles so relaxed from the delirium, induced by overwhelming stimulation of Arthur’s body and soul, he has trouble maneuvering his limbs.

His hold on Merlin is more like an impatient pawing. Merlin laughs at him, the sound delighted before he bends down to kiss Arthur’s brow, “I’m right here.”

Merlin looks up from under his lascivious eyelashes as he coats his fingers generously in lube. Arthur doesn’t tear his gaze away even for a second.

“Arthur, I want you to tell me if you feel hurt or uncomfortable, okay?” Arthur quickly nods in succession, unable to stop agreeing with Merlin just so he will do _something._ It doesn’t hurt when Merlin starts pushing his fingers inside, but as he progresses, Arthur feels a little burn of pain blossom under Merlin’s gentle fingertips.

Arthur breathes deeply, adjusting to the sensation.

“Hurts?” Merlin’s brow furrow in worry.

“Good,” Arthur exhales, throwing his head back and licking his dry lips.

He feels Merlin sink his fingers in all the way to the knuckle before stilling inside.

Arthur waits for about three seconds before he experimentally moves his hips in tiny circles. It’s isn’t an unpleasant sensation but there is nothing really glorious about it either, decides Arthur, right before Merlin crooks his fingers.

Arthur cries out loud, arching his back reflexively, trying to chase the jolt of pleasure that rushes through him.

“M-Merlin,” he stutters through erratic exhales. “M-more.”

Merlin repeats the trick again and again until Arthur is positively writhing on the bedsheets, grabbing handfuls of linen and practically smothering himself into the pillow to silence the loud sound that rip from his throat, but to no avail.

Suddenly, there is an emptiness inside him. Arthur’s eyes fly open in desperation.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m going to get inside you now,” Merlin strokes Arthur’s thigh, leaving slippery traces of lube across the heated skin.

Arthur makes a mewling noise in agreement.

Merlin wriggles out of his jeans, shucking his pants aside as well. His cock curves thick and long against his belly. Arthur’s mouth waters.

“Not this time, Arthur,” Merlin murmures upon apparently noticing Arthur’s dazed eyes instantly go hungry.

He quickly rolls a condom on his cock, pouring some more lube over it. Merlin takes Arthur by the hips, angling himself.

“This is going to be a bit more than my fingers, love,” he warns before pushing the tip inside.

Arthur bangs his head into the pillow, biting down on his lip. It _hurts._ Not a sharp unbearable pain, but not the pleasant burn from before either. Merlin is soothing him, rubbing his thighs, his stomach, stroking Arthur’s tensed calves.

“Relax, love. Breathe,” Merlin is saying, all the while astonishingly slowly pushing into Arthur inch by excruciating inch.

Arthur realises Merlin has stopped moving, his graceful body leaning in so he can touch his cool lips to Arthur’s burning ones.

“It’s okay, you are doing good, love, you are doing so well.” Merlin is peppering Arthur’s face with sweet kisses, wiping a streak of sweat from Arthur’s brow.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice sounds hoarse. He swallows, trying to calm his hectic heartbeat, chest heaving with laboured breath. Merlin captures his lips, sliding his tongue deep into Arthur’s mouth, touching the roof of it with the soft tip.

It’s like Merlin is erasing every hostile touch, every invasive shadow of someone else’s body that ever violated Arthur’s space.

He is seated fully in him, surrounding Arthur with his care and his scent on all fronts. The world narrows down to Merlin, everything Arthur can feel or think at the moment is hopelessly laced with _M e r l i n._

And maybe at this second, he realises what Merlin meant by telling him Arthur was the world.

Right now, Merlin is the absolute axis of his universe, the universe itself, too.

“Move,” Arthur whines, unable to endure this overpowering stillness any more. He’s timorous he might burst from all these intense emotions if Merlin doesn’t bring him some relief, _soon._

“Tell me you want it,” Merlin whispers, ever his sweet on the ears self.

“I want it,” Arthur keens. “I want you, all of you. Fuck, Merlin, just move already, I want to be yours as much as you are mine.” Arthur doesn’t know what he is saying anymore, just tells Merlin everything that is going through his mind, brain-to-mouth filter completely broken, liquified in the heat of their joined bodies.

Merlin inhales sharply as the word ‘mine’ slips from Arthur’s lips.

He starts thrusting his hips, carefully at first but picking up pace until both of them are crying out softly, clutching at each other as if the world ends tomorrow. And if it did, that would be fine. They have the two of them, two perfectly flawed worlds to hold on to.

At some point, Merlin draws back, changing the angle a little. Next time he pushes in, Arthur right out screams with pleasure. It doesn’t take more than three more times for his body to tense to the point of pain, Arthur tumbling over the edge only to feel like flying.

He comes down from his blissful high just in time to hear Merlin breathe in his ear, _‘My spring,’_ before biting down hard on his earlobe as he reaches his orgasm.

~

Arthur sits against the headboard, waiting for Merlin to come out of the bathroom where he disappeared with the wet cloth after cleaning them up. Merlin enters the room, smiling blindingly, and takes his favourite spot in Arthur’s lap.

The first rays of early sunshine illuminate the room, dancing sunny rabbits all over the surfaces.

“How are you feeling?” Merlin intertwines their fingers, bringing both Arthur’s hands to his lips.

“Sated,” Arthur flashes a smile.

Merlin looks smug.

“You know what this means, Merlin, right?”

Merlin throws him a confused look. “What?”

“I’m twenty-one. I’m free. Now you are going to have a field day, no -- a field _month_ \-- dragging me to all the places you wanted to show me. Any time.”

Merlin laughs, carefree. “ _All_ the places! Hop on my carpet, mate, I will show you the wonders of this realm!”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “We should make a bucket list.”

“We really should,” Merlin nods, then pauses, glancing down at Arthur’s arms. Quieter, he adds, “Therapy will have to be on that bucket list, too.”

Arthur hums affirmatively.

“I just think this is something you have to talk with a professional about, Arthur,” Merlin insists despite that Arthur has already agreed.

“I know, Merlin, I know,” Arthur drawls. “Hey, guess what?”

“What?”

“Nine months clean and counting,” Arthur grins. Merlin falls forward with a happy giggle to peck him on the lips.

They wriggle down to lie side by side, Merlin snuggling into Arthur’s chest. They listen to the peaceful silence when Arthur remembers something.

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“When you, uh, when you came, you called me your ‘spring’?”

“Yes?”

“What’s up with that? Is that also one of your perceptions of me?”

Merlin rubs his cheek against Arthur’s collarbone, looking up at him. “No, that’s my endearing name.”

Arthur raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You see,” Merlin licks his lips. “I think, the general endearing names are very impersonal. Also, some of them are actually stupid. Like, how offensive would that be to, say, call a diabetic ‘sweetie’? Incredibly offensive, if you as me.”

Arthur snorts.

“Stop laughing at me! Anyway, I prefer to call people by something I _really like._ For example, spring. It’s so beautiful and hopeful, everything coming back to life and the air smells like grass and menthol. Thus, you are my spring.”

Arthur hums in thought.

“Well, then you are my cocoa.”

“Your what?”

“Cocoa. I used to like it. I mean, I do like it, it’s just I haven’t had it in such a long time. Over a decade, probably. My uncle Gaius used to make hot cocoa for me and my sister when I would stay over. For me, it tastes like safety and home. You are my cocoa, now.”

“Am I equally sweet and hot?” Merlin winks at him playfully before climbing to straddle Arthur’s stomach.

“Hmph,” says Arthur.

“Arthur, you know what today is?”

Arthur racks his brain, trying to remember if he missed something important. He can’t come up with something other than the obvious.

“My birthday?”

“Well, yes. But also today is I love you.”

Merlin stares intently at him, biting his lip. Arthur knows he probably doesn’t expect his feelings to be reciprocated right away but Arthur has been feeling something for a long time now. Something that began as that uncomfortable stirring sensation low in his stomach, something that nestled in his soul, blossoming quietly and steadily until one day, that something saved Arthur’s life.

“That’s not quite the case, Merlin.”

For a second, Merlin looks taken aback, unsure of what Arthur is implying.

“Huh?” He asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Because today is I love you, too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading the story. I hope you liked it! I apologise for any typos that are left.
> 
> The LJ Masterpost with additional images and the link to the ~insight of the story~ is [here](http://wawrthur.livejournal.com/2907.html). 
> 
>  
> 
> If you are feeling suicidal, please read [The Ten Minute Suicide Guide](http://www.cracked.com/article_15658_the-ten-minute-suicide-guide.html). It takes ten minutes but it might just persuade you to give yourself some more time ;)
> 
> And [here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/33997899092/the-struggle-makes-youu-stronger-alternatives) is a list of alternatives to self-harm. If you feel like hurting yourself, please at least glance through it. The alternatives are sorted depending on the nature of a mood.
> 
> Please stay safe :)


End file.
